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AUTHOR'S     EDITION 


19101.4 


EXPIATION 


I. 


HE  Seine  in  its  winding  course  was 
sparkling  under  the  last  rays  of  a 
bright  April  sun,  when  a  young  man 
stopped  on  the  tow-path  in  front  of  the  low 
arched  gateway  of  a  house  that  stood  on  the  river 
bank  not  far  from  Paris.  The  house  was  rather 
commonplace  in  appearance,  and  neither  elegant 
nor  imposing  ;  but  the  lack  of  architectural  orna- 
ment was  more  than  supplied  by  a  woodbine 
that  was  trained  over  its  front,  while  at  the  sides 
some  cherry  trees  sliook  their  heads,  white  with 
their  load  of  blossoms,  as  if  in  derision  of  the 
big  trees  in  the  neighboring  park,  which  were  as 
yet  quite  bald.     The  little  terraced  garden,  a 


lo  Expiation. 


mere  basket  of  hyacinths  and  violets,  was  redo- 
lent of  Spring  ;  it  was  filled  with  the  twittering 
of  birds  and  the  buzzing  of  insects,  while  a  hedge 
of  privet  and  hawthorn  sent  its  penetrating  odor 
abroad  ;  altogether  it  was  quite  enough  to  touch 
the  fancy  of  a  young  man  of  twenty. 

Bernard — he  knew  no  other  than  his  bap- 
tismal name,  and  we  will  therefore  designate 
him  by  that — Bernard  was  not  much  beyond 
this  happy  age.  His  face  wore  an  expression  of 
thoughtful  gravity,  which  was  tempered  by  that 
unspeakable  charm  of  youth  that  lasts  hardly 
longer  than  does  the  down  upon  the  fruit.  His 
complexion  was  as  delicate  and  as  changing  as 
the  complexion  of  a  womar  The  pallor,  that  the 
slightest  amotion  servea  o  dissipate,  the  trifling 
stoop  in  the  tall  form,  the  rather  slow  and  medi- 
tative gait,  together  formed  an  interesting  con- 
trast with  the  proud  energy  that  was  displayed  in 
the  glance  of  his  deep,  fearless  eye.  As  he  took 
off  his  hat  he  disclosed  to  view  a  noble  forehead, 
but  one  on  which  melancholy  had  already  cast  a 
shade.  A  light  breeze  lifted  his  tawny  locks,  and 
the  young  man  stopped  to  meet  its  refreshing 
caress,  and,  like  a  city  man,  to  whom  a  country 
holiday  is  a  rare  event,  he  drew  in   with  keen 


Expiation,  1 1 


relish,  through  ears  and  nostrils,  the  music  and 
the  perfumes  of  the  fields. 

For  a  long  time  he  remained  gazing  on  the 
river,  glowing  in  the  golden  light  that  had  been 
blazing  in  the  western  sky,  but  was  now  slowly 
fading.  From  one  of  the  little  willow-fringed 
islands  that  dot  the  bosom  of  the  Seine,  pleasant 
little  clumps  of  trees,  where  one  might  expect  to 
see  the  foliage  part  and  disclose  the  smiling  face 
of  some  shy,  coquettisli  Gallic  nymph,  there  came 
forth  a  row-boat  with  two  persons  in  it — a  fine- 
looking  young  fellow,  who  handled  the  oars,  and 
a  young  girl,  of  whom  all  that  was  plainly  distin- 
guishable was  a  fluttering  blue  veil,  in  which  the 
wandering  dragon-flies  entangled  themselves. 
The  sound  of  their  laughter,  the  chorus  of  a 
barcarol,  came  echoing  back  from  the  shore  ; 
then,  when  they  had  turned  a  certain  point,  where 
they  thought  they  were  beyond  the  reach  of  in- 
quisitive eyes,  their  heads  gravitated  together, 
the  song  was  no  longer  heard,  and  for  a  second 
or  so,  the  boat  stood  motionless  under  the  wil- 
lows. 

A  faint  tinge  of  color  rose  to  Bernard's  cheeks 
as  he  unintentionally  witnessed  this  scene.  All 
the  entrancing  influences  of  this  brightest  time  of 


12  Expiation. 


the  year — the  pleasant  warmth  of  the  air,  the 
contagious  gayety  of  the  season,  the  occult  sym- 
pathy with  Nature  working  among  her  growing 
trees  and  flowers — were  embodied  for  him  in  one 
single  name  that  now  escaped  through  his  half- 
parted  lips — Rose  !  It  was  hardly  more  than  a 
sigh,  and  was  at  once  repressed,  as  if  the  young 
man  had  even  feared  to  betray  his  secret  to  soli- 
tude. He  was  much  moved,  and  for  an  instant 
was  silent ;  then,  "Why,"  said  he,  "  should  I  con- 
demn myself  to  a  sterile  life  ?  All  these  things 
are  mine  as  much  as  they  are  another's.  Who 
shall  prevent  me  from  enjoying  them  ?  I  intend 
to  live  my  life  !  " 

He  directed  his  steps  toward  the  house  and 
knocked  at  the  small  door.  A  woman-servant 
came  running,  and  opened  with  a  great  show 
of  surprise.  "  What  !  You  here  to-day.  Mon- 
sieur Bernard  ?  Upon  my  word,  we  were  not 
expecting  you.  Are  you  having  a  vacation  ?  A 
fine  surprise  it  will  be  for  Madame.  .  .  .  She  is 
at  church.     But  come  in,  come  in  !  " 

"Thank  you,"  replied  the  young  man.  "I 
will  wait  here  under  this  arbor."  To  tell  the 
truth,  he  was  glad  to  have  a  few  minutes  in  which 
to   prepare  himself   for  an  interview  which  he 


Expiation,  13 


knew  would  not  be  unattended  by  difficulties. 
"  Go  and  attend  to  what  you  have  to  do,  my  good 
Mariette,"  he  added,  seeing  that  the  old  servant 
remained  standing  before  him,  for  fear,  as  she 
said  in  her  good-natured  familarity,  that  he 
might  be  lonely  all  by  himself. 

From  the  bench  where  he  sat  he  commanded 
a  view  of  the  river,  the  plain,  now  green  as  a 
meadow  beneath  its  newly  sprouting  crop  of 
wheat,  and  the  hills  beyond  with  their  vineyards 
hazy  in  the  distance.  This  horizon,  limited  as  it 
was,  and  the  school  where  he  had  but  just  com- 
pleted his  studies,  comprised  all  that  Bernard 
knew  or  had  seen  of  the  world.  As  he  reflected 
on  this  an  irresistible  desire  seized  him  to  extend 
his  knowledge.  It  was  like  the  instinct  which 
impels  the  butterfly  to  burst  the  cocoon  which 
imprisons  its  wings,  the  bird  to  take  flight  from 
the  nest  to  which  it  will  never  return  again,  the 
craving  after  liberty  that  is  implanted  in  the 
breasts  of  all  young,  strong  things.  The  fiery 
Spring  sunlight  had,  so  to  speak,  intoxicated  him; 
this  sudden  outbreak  of  a  new  life  had  discon- 
certed all  his  previous  plans  and  resolutions ;  he 
saw  them  leave  him  as  the  last  dead  leaf,  clinging 
to  its  branch,  is  borne  away  by  the  breeze  that 


14  Expiation, 


causes  the  new  buds  to  open.  His  meditations 
were  interrupted  by  a  well-known  voice  at  his 
ear. 

"There  is  no  bad  news,  I  hope  ?" 
The  person  who  addressed  him  thus  was  a 
woman  who  was  still  beautiful,  though  her  pre- 
maturely gray  hair  and  the  simplicity  of  her 
dress  made  her  look  older  than  she  actually  was. 
The  calm,  restful  serenity  of  her  countenance 
gave  evidence  of  a  spotleiJ  life  and  an  unruffled 
conscience.  Still,  however,  deep  down  in  her 
large,  black  eyes,  there  was  a  glint  of  enthusiasm 
which,  beneath  the  devotee,  revealed  the  heroine. 
It  may  have  been  the  light  of  some  consuming 
love  that  had  been  purified  into  charity  through 
the  means  of  some  great  sacrifice.  Every  great 
exclusive  attachment  leaves  behind  it  a  void, 
which  God  alone  has  the  power  to  fill.  It  could 
not  have  been  the  late  M.  Desaubiers  who  was 
responsible  for  this  void,  for  the  poor  man's 
whole  existence  had  been  nothing  but  an  annoy- 
ance to  every  one  who  came  in  contact  with  him. 
However  that  may  be,  his  widow  had,  nearly 
twenty  years  ago,  renounced  the  world,  or  at 
least  that  moderate  portion  of  it  which  her  small 
fortune  and  humble  rank  had  ever  allowed  her  to 


Expiation.  15 


enjoy.  With  but  slender  resources,  she  still  al- 
ways found  it  in  her  power  to  relieve  those  un- 
fortunates who  came  to  her  for  assistance.  Her 
numerous  beneficiaries  made  quite  a  large  family, 
in  which  there  had  been  more  than  one  prodigal 
son,  gratitude  being  a  virtue  that  is  not  universal 
among  human  kind ;  but  she  always  waited 
patiently  for  these  to  return,  and  did  not  allow 
their  misdeeds  to  work  to  the  prejudice  of  the 
rest  of  her  flock  ;  her  cheerful  optimism  would 
not  let  her  believe  in  the  permancy  of  evil.  How 
many  times  Bernard  had  been  soothed  and  sus- 
tained by  that  motherly  white  hand  that  now 
rested  on  his  shoulder,  while  her  eyes  seemed  to 
read  the  trouble  that  lay  in  his  heart  with  their 
loving,  searching  scrutiny.  But  it  was  impossible 
to  answer  that  look  otherwise  than  truthfully. 
So  when  Madame  Desaubiers  said  :  "  There  is  no 
bad  news,  I  hope  ? "  Bernard  could  not  answer 
simply  yes  or  no^  the  confession  that  he  had  to 
make  being  of  too  complex  a  character. 

"  I  hardly  know,"  said  he,  "  what  you  will  think 
about  it.  Only  a  little  while  ago  I  tli ought  that 
I  was  coming  here  to  get  your  advice,  but  now  I 
feel  that  my  mind  is  made  up,  and  that  I  shall 
have  to  make  you  a  plain  statement  of  the  case." 


[6  Expiation. 


"  What  a  serious  way  of  introducing  it !  " 
Taking  a  seat  beside  him  on  the  bench,  she  con- 
trolled her  impatience  by  tightening  her  clasp 
on  the  prayer-book,  which  she  held  in  her  hand, 
and  waited  for  him  to  speak  ;  then,  as  he  did  not 
proceed,  "  Ah  !  "  said  she,  "  it  has  been  in  my 
mind  for  some  time,  that  you  were  concealing  a 
misfortune  from  me — or  a  fault." 

"  Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  replied  Ber- 
nard, plucking  up  his  courage.  '^  All  there  is 
about  it,  is  that  I  cannot  enter  the  theological 
school." 

Both  were  silent,  he  glad  that  he  had,  at  last, 
made  a  breast  of  it,  Madame  D^saubiers,  evi- 
dently vexed,  "  Why  !  "  shv^  inquired,  "  what  ob- 
stacle has  arisen  ?  It  was  your  own  wish  ;  you 
requested  it." 

"  I  was  not  old  enough  to  understand  that  the 
exercise  of  these  lofty  virtues  calls  for  more 
thought  than  I  have  at  my  command.  Without 
any  constraint  you  always  seemed  to  prefer  that 
I  should  select  this  calling,  rather  than  I  selected 
it  for  myself.  In  a  word,  my  excuse  for  my  mistake 
is,  that  notwithstanding  all  your  goodness  to  me, 
I  was  unhappy  ;  I  thought  that  I  was  condemned 
to  a  life  of  perpetual  isolation.     As  it  is  now,  I 


Expiation.  17 


do  not  know  what  career  to  select;  but  one  thing 
I  am  certain  of,  I  should  make  a  bad  priest,  and 
the  obstacle  lies  in  myself," 

"  What  your  superiors  tell  me  does  not  agree 
with  this  sudden  failure  of  your  resolution,"  re- 
marked Madame  Desaubiers,  "  and  I  am  sorry  to 
see  you  leave  so  straight  and  safe  a  road  without, 
I  am  afraid,  giving  the  matter  sufficient  consider- 
ation. We  shall  have  to  try  and  find  another 
one,"  she  continued,  with  a  sigh  of  resignation. 
"  You  will  find  more  than  one  way  of  employing 
your  talents,  but  the  world  is  pitiless  for  those 
who  face  it  without  the  arms  and  passwords  that 
are  exacted  by  custom  ;  it  respects  no  mystery 
and  is  careless  of  susceptibilities.  There  are 
trials  in  store  for  you,  my  poor  child,  that  God 
would  certainly  have  spared  you  had  you  chosen 
to  embrace  his  service.  Think  of  your  excep- 
tional position  in  society,  that  it  pains  me  to  have 
to  speak  to  you  of  !  " 

"  I  have  never  forgotten  it,"  interrupted  Ber- 
nard, with  deep  feeling.  "  I  know  that  I  have 
nothing  to  expect  from  the  future,  and  that  for 
the  present,  I  have  nothing,  not  even  a  name  ; 
that  I  have  received  by  way  of  charity,  that  in- 
struction, which  I  very  likely  shall  not  be  per- 


1 8  Expiatio7i. 


mitted  to  make  use  of,  to  make  for  myself  a  ca- 
reer that  will  be  to  my  liking.  Pardon  me,  my 
friend,  my  benefactress,"  he  exclaimed,  suddenly 
curbing  himself,  struck  by  the  change  from  se- 
verity to  deepest  grief  expressed  on  Madame  De- 
saubiers'  countenance  ;  "  the  charity  which  I  al- 
luded to  so  ungratefully,  sliould  have  been  sacred 
to  me,  since  it  came  to  me  through  your  interven- 
tion, but  I  cannot  help  detesting  the  tyranny  of 
this  unknown  father,  who  would  first  do  all  that 
he  could  to  stifle  my  miserable  existence,  and 
then  would  shut  me  up  behind  the  doors  of  a 
church  or  a  convent." 

"  You  misunderstand  him,"  said  Madame  De- 
saubiers  sharply  ;  "  you  attribute  to  him  inten- 
tions which  he  never  had.  He  was  entirely  ig- 
norant of  the  dream  with  which  I  have  deluded 
myself  ;  it  is  on  me  that  your  reproaches  must 
fall  ;  he  does  not  know  now,  and  has  never 
known  anything  at  all  in  regard  to  you." 

"  Yes,  I  understand  that  he  furnished  you  with 
means  to  do  a  work  of  charity,  about  which  he 
himself  was  quite  indifferent.  My  only  obliga- 
tion therefore  is  to  you  ;  you  sat  by  the  bedside 
of  my  poor  mother,  and  comforted  her  in  her 
last  moments,  dying,  as  no  doubt  she  did,  of  grief 


Expiation,  19 


and  shame.  Oh,  that  I  could  but  recall  her  feat- 
ures !  Had  she  only  lived  ! — But  alas  !  what 
could  I  effect  toward  making  any  one  happy  !  " 

"  And  do  you  count  my  happiness  as  of  no 
importance  ? "  asked  Madame  Desaubiers.  "  You 
will  insure  it  to  me,"  continued  the  good  woman, 
as  he  kissed  her  with  the  affection  of  a  son,  "  by 
being  happy  yourself." 

Again  she  cast  her  scrutinizing  glance  upon 
him.  "  What  is  the  main  reason,"  she  inquired, 
"  for  your  changing  your  mind  as  to  taking  or- 
ders, a  step  to  which  you  were  impelled,  as  you 
once  confessed  to  me,  rather  by  a  feeling  of  sad- 
ness than  by  obedience  ?  How  long  is  it  since 
you  ceased  feeling  sad  enough  to  carry  out  this 
suicide,  as  you  call  it,  but  which  I  had  always  re- 
garded as  a  calling  of  your  own  selection  ?  How 
long  have  you  felt  yourself  unequal  to  the  virtues 
demanded  by  eternal  celibacy  ?  " 

The  young  man  gave  a  start ;  Madame 
Desaubiers,  in  the  kindness  of  her  heart, 
had  changed  the  course  of  the  inquiry,  but  the 
explanations  that  he  was  to  make  in  reply  to 
her  new  questions  gave  him  no  less  trouble  than 
the  old. 

"  For  two  years  perhaps,"  he  said  in  a  very  low 


20  Expiation. 


voice,  not  feeling  brave  enough  to  confess  more 
than  a  part  of  the  truth. 

"  It  was  two  years  ago  that  Madame  Aymes 
and  her  daughter  spent  their  vacation  with  us," 
Madame  Desaubiers  let  fall  carelessly,  "  but  your 
secrets  are  your  own." 

Bernard  cast  his  eyes  down,  then  quickly  rais- 
ing them  again  : 

"  No,"  he  exclaimed,  **  I  will  conceal  nothing 
from  you.  I  love  her.  In  the  beginning  I  loved 
her  as  the  first  of  my  play-fellows,  who  showed 
me  any  kindness,  who  never  hurt  my  feelings  by 
asking  inconsiderate  questions  or  getting  off  bru- 
tal witticisms  at  my  expense.  I  never  told  you 
what  I  have  had  to  suffer  from  my  school-mates 
in  this  respect,  before  I  even  knew  the  meaning 
of  the  word  shame  !  And  she  was  always  so  even- 
tempered,  so  amiable,  so  good-hearted  !  I  used 
to  wait  impatiently  for  the  time  to  come  when  I 
was  to  meet  her  at  your  house,  I  felt  so  peaceful 
and  contented  where  she  was  ;  then  suddenly, 
when  I  met  her  one  vacation  time,  it  was  all 
changed.  In  place  of  the  little  girl,  who  was  in 
my  thoughts  during  every  day  of  our  long  sepa- 
ration, I  found  a  woman  whom  I  hardly  dared 
speak  to.     But  to  make  up  for  this  deprivation, 


Expiation,  2 1 


how  I  watched  her,  how  I  admired  her !  Her 
tender  care  for  her  mother  filled  me  with  respect, 
mingled  with  my  feeling  of  adoration,  for  she 
is  .  .  .  .  "  Here  Bernard  looked  inquiringly 
at  Madame  Desaubiers,  who  could  not  help 
smiling. 

"  Is  she  beautiful,  do  you  think  ?  " 
"  Certainly  not ;  she  is  not  even  pretty." 
"Well,  I  don't  pretend  to  know  anything  about 
it,"  continued  Bernard,  "  but  she  was  the  first  one 
who  ever  gave  me  an  idea  of  what  beauty  is.  I 
shall  never  forget  the  day  when  I  saw  her  for  the 
first  time  as  she  is  now,  or  rather  as  she  has  been 
in  my  eyes  since  that  time,  and  I  confess  that  it 
would  be  very  delightful  to  me  to  think  that  no 
one  else  could  ever  see  her  in  the  same  light  that 
I  do  ;  that  the  impression  might  remain  mine  and 
mine  alone. 

"  You  were  here  with  your  embroidery,  under 
this  same  arbor  where  we  are  sitting  now  ;  Rose 
was  reading  aloud,  and  I  was  watching  her.  It 
was  in  the  height  of  summer  and  about  mid-day; 
the  shadows  from  the  trembling  leaves  chased 
each  other  over  her  face,  as  it  was  bent  over  her 
book,  Madame  Aymes  asked  for  a  skein  of  silk, 
which  she  had  left  in  the  drawing-room,  and  be- 


Expiation, 


fore  I  had  fully  understood  Rose  had  thrown 
aside  her  book,  and  was  running  toward  the 
house.  I  was  ashamed  of  my  slowness  of  appre- 
hension, as  well  as  of  my  want  of  politeness.  I 
tried  to  stop  Rose,  who  was  already  at  a  distance; 
I  followed  her.  We  raced  like  two  children,  she 
ahead  and  looking  back  at  me  with  a  laughing 
challenge  in  her  eyes,  scarcely  touching  the 
gravel  with  her  flying  feet,  now  disappearing  be- 
hind some  shrubbery  to  reappear  on  the  other 
side,  her  every  movement  marked  by  an  airy 
grace  that  is  beyond  description.  Daphne,  Atla- 
lanta,  Galatea,  all  the  light-footed  heroines  of  the 
metamorphoses  were  personified  in  her.  Suddenly 
a  still  more  alluring  dream  took  possession  of  my 
fancy  ;  it  seemed  to  me  that  the  happiness  of  all 
my  future  life  was  ahead  of  me,  and  that  I  was 
pursuing  it ;  a  mad  desire  to  seize  it,  and  hold  it 
in  my  grasp,  lent  wings  to  my  feet.  I  caught  up 
with  Rose  and  stayed  her  with  my  eager  hand  ; 
for  a  second  I  felt  her  trembling  against  my  heart, 
which  was  beating  as  if  it  would  break,  but  im- 
mediately the  realization  of  my  desire  was  suc- 
ceeded by  an  unconquerable  terror.  During  the 
pursuit  I  had  been  laying  up  a  store  of  eloquent 
words  that  I  was  anxious  to  disburthen  myself  of. 


Expiation.  23 


without  having  any  very  clear  idea  of  what  I  was 
going  to  say,  and  now  that  I  had  caught  her  I 
could  not  get  out  a  word;  in  reply  to  her  aston- 
ished look  I  could  with  difficulty  stammer  out 
some  ineffectual  words  of  excuse,  which  seemed 
to  divert  her  exceedingly.  Ever  since  that  time 
the  same  picture  has  been  my  companion  by 
day  and  by  night,  presenting  itself  as  the  only 
end,  the  supreme  reward,  of  whatever  I  may  un- 
dertake. I  would  like  to  become  wealthy  and 
distinguished  for  her  sake,  and  I  do  not  under- 
stand how  I  could  have  been  so  near  renoun- 
cing all  prospects  of  future  happiness  in  Rose's 
love,  which  seemed  to  me  beyond  my  reach, 
until  the  day  when  I  clasped  it  in  my  arms  at 
the  same  time   as  Rose  herself." 

**  Yes,"  replied  Madame  Desaubiers  thought- 
fully, "  Rose  is  worthy  of  a  place  in  your  affec- 
tions and  also  of  being  the  reward  of  your  under- 
takings. But  the  idea  of  a  reward  presupposes 
an  effort,  and  that  you  have  not  made  so  far. 
We  must  endeavor  to  deserve  everything  in  this 
world,  and  we  must  wait  ;  it  is  for  the  best,  for 
often  we  do  not  know  our  own  wishes,  and 
Providence  wisely  defers  the  realization,  know- 
ing   that    man    to-day    is    not  the   same   that 


24  Expiation. 


he  was  yesterday.  Eclogues  are  not  repeated, 
and  while  I  would  not  do  you  injustice,  I  fear 
that  in  point  of  constancy  you  will  be  neither 
better  nor  worse  than  the  rest  of  mankind." 

"  There  are  women  to  whom  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  be  inconstant  !  " 

**  I  have  heard  that  same  expression  from  lips 
that  were  as  truthful  as  yours,  which  afterward 
uttered  the  same  vows  to  other  ears  ;  they  have 
forgotten,  but  I  have  remembered." 

'*  And  who  could  have  forgotten  you?"  ex- 
claimed Bernard,  with  all  the  deep  sympathy 
that  lovers  always  feel  in  hearing  of  a  love  affair. 

**  It  does  not  make  much  difference  now.  All 
that  I  want  to  say  is,  that  perhaps  Rose  some  of 
these  days  will  not  seem  to  you  the  only  woman 
in  the  world  worth  living  for.  Have  you  ever 
spoken  to  her  of  the  feelings  you  entertain  toward 
her  ? " 

"  I  could  not  have  dared." 

"  Have  you  any  reason  for  thinking  that  she 
understands  them,  or  that  she  shares  them  ?  " 

**  She  has  never  given  me  reason  to  think  that 
she  has  any  other  feeling  toward  me,  than  a  sin- 
cere and  kindly  friendship,"  replied  the  young 
man  with  a  sigh. 


Expiation.  25 


"Very  well;  do  not  let  the  matter  go  any  farther. 
You  would  neither  of  you  be  justified  in  con- 
tracting an  engagement  yet  awhile.  Rose  has 
her  mother  to  take  care  of,  and  you  have  your 
work,  which  may  some  day  enable  you  to  offer 
her  comfort,  if  not  a  fortune.  I  know  what  you 
are  going  to  say  ;  that  if  you  had  Rose's  word  it 
would  give  you  courage  and  patience,  but  you 
could  not  obtain  it  without  disturbing  her  peace 
of  mind;  and  suppose,  after  all,  her  heart  holds 
no  sentiment  stronger  than  a  sisterly  love  ?  You 
need  not  alarm  yourself,  my  dear  child  ;  I  have 
no  reason  for  believing  one  way  or  the  other. 
You  must  hope,  and  if  this  hope,  indefinite  and 
remote  as  it  is,  cannot  sustain  your  courage,  the 
only  reason  is  that  you  do  not  love  as  you  say 
you  do.  " 

This  language,  at  once  firm  and  enthusiastic, 
did  not  fail  to  produce  its  due  effect  upon  Bernard. 
Their  talk  was  prolonged  until  evening  under 
the  little  arbor,  and  then,  when  night  came  on, 
by  lamp-light  in  the  little  drawing-room,  where  a 
thousand  plans  for  the  future  were  taken  up  and 
discussed  one  by  one.  It  was  decided  that,  to 
begin  with,  teaching  offered  Bernard  an  imme- 
diate resource,  though  but  a  slender   one,   and 


26  Expiation. 


that  he   might   content   himself  with   this  while 
waiting  for  something  better. 


II. 


|UR  best  actions  always  have  some 
alloy  of  selfishness.  When,  some 
years  before  the  time  of  our  story, 
Madame  Desaubiers  had  asked  the 
privilege  of  protecting  an  orphan  child  that 
was  threatened  with  abandonment,  her  charity, 
which  was  such  a  nobly  distinctive  feature  of  her 
character,  was  not  the  only  inspiring  motive.  At 
this  time  she  had  just  passed  through  the  deci- 
sive crisis  of  her  life,  she  had  made  that  sacrifice 
that  is  the  most  trying  one  that  a  woman  can 
make,  that  of  a  great  passion,  the  only  one  of 
her  life,  one  of  that  description  that,  if  it  carries 
us  into  the  region  of  storms,  also  takes  us  into 
the  land  of  enchantment.  Death  seemed  easier 
to  her  than  to  descend  from  so  great  a  height ; 


Expiation.  27 


still,  she  did  not  allow  even  her  love  to  blind  her 
judgment.  She  knew  that  if  she  yielded  she  would 
forthwith  lose  all  the  respect  of  her  admirer, 
one  of  those  cynical  men  who  are  eager  in  pur- 
suit as  long  as  there  is  opposition,  but,  as  soon  as 
their  passion  is  gratified,  cast  the  object  remorse- 
lessly to  one  side.  Against  being  numbered 
among  the  forgotten,  or  at  least  placed  on  the  list 
with  those  whose  conquest  had  been  rather  more 
difficult,  her  only  alternative  was  resistance.  Of 
a  mind  as  lofty  as  it  was  pure,  she  aimed  at 
occupying  a  place  in  this  worn-out  heart  such  as 
no  one  except  herself  had  ever  occupied. 

Many  another  woman,  even  those  high  in 
station,  would  have  gladly  accepted  what  slie 
rejected.  Madame  D^saubiers  felt  the  attraction, 
but  she  triumphed  over  it.  She  did  not  wish  to 
make  herself  disagreeable  by  reason  of  her  scru- 
ples, her  exactions,  her  complainings,  her  jeal- 
ousy, and  already  she  was  conscious  of  a  bent  in 
that  direction.  She  felt  that  she  would  become 
irksome  to  him,  and  that  he  would  soon  tire  of 
her,  for  she  knew  nothing  of  the  objects  and 
interests  of  a  man  who,  by  birth  and  by  ability, 
held  a  position  among  the  very  foremost  of  the 
earth.      Chance   had   introduced  them  to  each 


28  Expiation. 


other  while  on  a  journey  together ;  it  was  prob- 
able that  when  they  separated  it  would  be  to  never 
meet  again.  All  these  things  coincided,  we  may 
believe,  in  fortifying  Madame  D^saubiers*  good 
resolution.  However  that  may  be,  she  succeeded 
in  avoiding  an  entanglement,  and  gave  the 
pleasure  of  an  honest  friendship  to  the  man  who, 
until  then,  had  been  the  least  capable  of  all  men 
of  wasting  his  time  in  Platonic  sublimities.  "  It 
would  be  a  pity,"  he  soon  began  to  think  "to 
take  away  the  halo  that  is  so  becoming  to  the 
face  of  this  admirable  little  bourgeoises  The 
feeling  of  pique  that  he  had  experienced  at  his 
first  repulse  gave  way  before  the  novelty  of  the 
situation  ;  he  found  pleasure  in  her  conversation, 
even  without  making  love  to  her.  As  she  came 
to  question  him  about  his  far-off  country,  his 
adventurous  but  ill-spent  youth,  his  travels, 
which  had  carried  him  to  every  court  of  Europe, 
Madame  Desaubiers  obtained  from  him  confes- 
sions that  he  never  had  the  slightest  idea  of 
making  even  to  himself.  As  a  result  of  these 
conversations,  so  tender  in  essentials,  so  circum- 
spect in  form,  his  cynical  precepts  and  worldly 
maxims  were  for  the  nonce  laid  aside,  and  be- 
neath his  outer  shell   of  perverse  waywardness 


Expiation,  29 


there  appeared  another  being,  better,  almost 
natural,  in  character,  whose  existence  he  had 
known  nothing  of  until  now.  One  evening,  not- 
withstanding the  feeling  of  pride  which  com- 
manded him  to  be  silent  in  regard  to  such  an 
unpleasant  recollection,  he  mentioned  the  sad 
consequences  that  had  resulted  from  one  of  his 
love  affairs  with  a  poor  girl  in  humble  circum- 
stances. 

"  And  you  did  nothing  to  repair  the  wrong  ?  '* 
timidly  asked  Madame  D^saubiers. 

"  The  only  reparation  that  I  could  make  was 
to  give  the  girl  a  dowry  ! " 

"  And  you  know  nothing  as  to  what  happened 
the  poor  thing  afterward  ? " 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  " 

"  But  what  became  of  him,  the  child  ?  Your 
own  Hesh  and  blood." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  from  his  dis- 
dainful lips  let  fall  a  merciless  expression : 
"There  are  no  children -except  those  born  in 
marriage !  " 

Conscience  is  just  as  likely  as  not  to  conceal 
remorse  beneath  cruel  or  cynical  words,  and  the 
conscience  of  this  particular  man  was  more  un- 
decipherable than  any  other.      Madame  Desau- 


3©  Expiation, 


biers,  therefore,  was  not  without  hope  of  awaken- 
ing it,  and  shortly  afterward  she  thought  that 
she  had  succeeded.  When  the  man,  whom  she 
had  compelled  to  yield  her  his  esteem,  was  about 
to  leave  France,  he  handed  her  a  large  sum 
of  money  for  the  poor,  so  that  she  might  act 
vicariously  for  him  in  saving  his  soul,  he  said. 
The  gift  and  the  confession,  falling  together  as 
they  did,  set  our  love-lorn  devotee  thinking. 
She  came  to  the  conclusion  that  she  had  a 
mission;  that  she  was  intrusted  with  a  legacy, 
which  she  received  in  silence.  Without  delay 
she  started  inquiries  as  to  the  whereabouts  of 
the  child,  and  took  all  the  steps  necessary  to 
the  accomplishment  of  a  labor  which,  in  her 
fond  hopes,  was  to  be  a  bond  of  union  between 
her  and  the  absent.  The  sum  received  for  the 
alleviation  of  general  distress  was  applied  to 
the  education  of  little  Bernard. 

Soon  this  little  waif  was  all  that  remained  to 
her  to  remind  her  of  her  short-lived  love.  The 
man  whom  she  had  idolized  to  such  an  extent 
that  she  could  even  overlook  his  vices,  had  now 
attained  such  a  lofty  position  that  he  was  in- 
accessible  to  common  mortals  ;  now  and  again 
Madame  D^saubiers  saw   his    name  mentioned 


Expiation,  3 1 


in  the  newspapers  among  the  diplomatic  cor- 
respondence ;  ambition  seemed  to  have  got  the 
better  of  this  Don  Juan's  love  of  pleasure. 
How  could  he  find  time  in  his  busy  life  for 
trivial  pursuits  ?  "  My  influence  is  at  work," 
thought  Madame  Desaubiers.  *'  The  day  will 
come  when  those  more  ennobling  pursuits  in 
which  he  now  finds  his  pleasure  will  also  pall 
on  him  ;  when,  satiated  with  fame  and  honors, 
he  will  regret  that  he  has  not  a  child  worthy 
of  him  to  perpetuate  his  name ;  then — who 
knows  ? "  She  looked  at  Bernard  and  noted 
with  joy  his  increasing  resemblance  to  his  father. 
The  boy  was  well  endowed  with  qualities  both 
of  head  and  heart,  and  she  made  a  mental 
vow  that  she  would  spare  no  severity  toward 
him,  if  that  were  required,  to  fit  him  for  a  high 
position.  Could  there  be  any  better  reward 
for  her  old-time  sacrifice  than  to  compel  the 
father  to  recognize  the  intervention  of  Provi- 
dence, and,  at  the  same  time,  secure  for  the  child 
the  worldly  position  from  which  he  had  been 
debarred  by  our  unjust  social  system  ? 

Madame  Desaubiers  thought  not,  and  hoped 
that  God  would  recompense  her  in  this  way. 

While  she  was  deluding    herself    with    these 


32  Expiation, 


idle  speculations,  she  received  a  letter  which 
showed  their  emptiness.  It  was  a  stiff,  awk- 
wardly framed  letter,  for  it  would  puzzle  the 
most  ingenious  of  men  to  tell  the  woman  whom 
he  once  loved  that  he  is  about  to  be  mar- 
ried and  not  feel  some  embarrassment.  He 
dwelt  at  length  on  the  reasons  of  expediency 
that  urged  him  to  the  step,  particularly  on  the 
duty  that  was  incumbent  on  him  of  keeping 
the  family  name  alive ;  but  what  mattered  it 
to  her  ?  She  only  knew  that  he  was  to  be  mar- 
ried. She  could  have  shed  bitter  tears  in  think- 
ing how  hopeless  Bernard's  fate  was  likely  to 
be  after  this.  What  was  she  to  do  with  this 
poor  soul  that  was  thus  outlawed  from  society 
and  deprived  of  all  family  ties  in  the  name  of 
morality,  whom  his  own  father  could  not  assist 
without  prejudice  to  his  legitimate  affections? 
She  sought  advice  in  prayer  and  was  pleased 
when  Bernard,  prompted  by  her  wishes,  evinced 
a  disposition  to  study  for  the  church  ;  how  her 
plans  had  been  upset  by  her  pupil's  rejection 
of  them  at  this  late  day  we  have  already  seen. 

When  he  at  last  left  her,  after  a  long  discus- 
sion, with  her  approbation  of  his  newly  formed 
plans,  Madame  Desaubiers,  greatly  annoyed  by 


Expiation.  33 


the  misunderstanding  into  which  she  had  fallen, 
resolved  to  leave  matters  in  stronger  hands  than 
hers,  and  entrust  the  direction  of  events  to  God. 
The  turn  which  they  were  taking,  moreover,  was 
not  repugnant  to  a  natural  predilection  of  her 
sex  ;  second  only  to  the  pleasure  of  being  loved, 
there  is  nothing  that  affords  a  woman  keener 
delight  than  to  be  the  confidant  of  the  love  of 
others.  Bernard,  she  said  to  herself,  had  made 
a  happy  selection  of  the  object  on  which  to  fix 
his  affections.  Strengthened,  as  she  had  been, 
by  her  brave  struggle  with  adversity.  Rose 
Aymes  would  be  an  assistant  to  him,  rather  than 
a  hindrance  or  a  burthen.  An  absolute  forget- 
fulness  of  self,  united  to  a  deep-seated  idea  of 
duty,  formed  her  distinguishing  characteristics. 
From  her  earliest  days  she  had  learned  to  rely 
on  her  own  efforts,  without,  however,  valuing 
them  too  highly,  and  this  is  the  best  moral  train- 
ing that  a  human  being  can  receive,  although  it 
is  not  generally  applied  to  women,  whose  in- 
feriority may  perhaps  be  accounted  for  by  this 
reason.  Her  mother  had  been  Madame  Desau- 
biers'  friend  at  boarding-school,  and  was  the 
widow  of  an  officer  who  had  met  an  honorable 
death  in   battle  while   still  young  ;  her   slender 


34  Expiation. 


pension  would  not  have  supported  her  had  not 
Rose  supplemented  it  by  the  product  of  her  un- 
ceasing daily  labor.  The  idea  of  marriage,  or 
of  making  herself  attractive  to  young  men,  had 
never  entered  her  head  ;  it  is  true  that  if  she 
had  been  told  in  so  many  words  that  she  was  to 
be  an  old  maid,  her  feelings  would  have  been 
shocked,  but  she  never  gave  the  matter  a  thought. 
Her  sole  object  was  her  mother ;  to  provide 
food  for  her  for  the  day,  and  to  smooth  away 
from  her  face  the  brooding  care  for  the  morrow, 
a  shadow  that  had  rested  there  and  been  a  cause 
of  sorrow  to  her  from  her  earliest  childhood,  and 
the  effort  that  she  was  compelled  to  make  to 
attain  this  end,  lowly  as  it  was,  appeared  to 
absorb  her  every  faculty,  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  other  matters. 


Expiation.  35 


III. 


|aDAME  AYMES  and  her  daughter 
had  a  little  garret  apartment  in  a 
house  in  the  Luxembourg  quarter, 
where  everything  indicated  their  poverty,  as  well 
as  the  elegance  of  their  tastes.  The  faded,  moth- 
eaten  furniture  was  perfectly  clean.  A  few 
pieces,  remnants  of  days  when  they  had  been 
better  off,  contrasted  with  the  nakedness  of  the 
work-room,  where  from  morning  until  evening 
Rose  plied  her  trade  of  painting  little  pictures  on 
enamel.  She  had  her  daily  bread  to  gain,  a  care 
which  engrosses  the  attention  of  so  many  artists 
of  the  humbler  rank.  Bernard  was  accustomed 
to  go  there  to  spend  some  of  the  few  leisure  mo- 
ments that  were  allowed  him  from  his  new  and 
rather  distasteful  duties.  "  When,"  he  would 
say  to  himself,  looking  at  Rose,  '*  Oh  !  when 
shall  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  stop  the  activity 
of  that  slender  hand,  to  bring  back  the  fresh 


36  Expiation, 


color  of  youth  to  that  cheek  ;  to  say  to  her,  in  a 
word,  rest  !  " 

She  evidently  would  be  glad  to  see  him,  and 
without  interrupting  her  work,  would  motion  him 
to  a  chair  by  her  side  with  a  pleasant  nod  of  her 
head.  Sometimes  she  would  lay  down  her 
brushes  to  attend  to  some  household  duty,  which 
she  would  do  without  any  false  shame,  with  a 
modest  dignity  that  was  all  her  own,  and  that 
prevented  any  action  of  hers  from  ever  appearing 
unworthy.  As  she  worked  she  would  laugh  and 
talk.  It  was  wonderful  that  her  mother's  per- 
petual whining  had  not  destroyed  her  faculty  of 
being  amused  and  entertained.  Under  their  re- 
peated reverses,  Madame  Aymes  had  given  way 
to  a  kind  of  unhealthy  apathy,  whereas  the  same 
trials  had  only  served  to  stimulate  Rose's  power 
of  nervous  resistance.  Things  of  the  smallest 
consequence  appeared  to  the  elder  lady  in  a  dole- 
ful or  terrific  light.  She  spent  her  time  in  la- 
menting the  past  and  bewailing  the  future,  while 
she  took  delight  in  multiplying  imaginary  troubles 
in  her  daughter's  path,  instead  of  helping  her  to 
clear  away  those  which  already  existed  there  in 
greater  number  than  they  should  have  done. 
With    all    this,   however,   she  was   very  fond  of 


Expiation,  37 


Rose.  Her  disposition  to  melancholy  had  been 
aggravated  by  severe  illness  in  early  life.  But 
Rose  took  everything  cheerfully,  and  allowed 
nothing  to  disturb  the  serenity  which  she  had  put 
on  like  a  shield.  Her  judgment  was  sound  and 
she  abounded  in  resources.  She  had  a  way  of 
looking  things  in  the  face  that  was  at  once  firm 
and  humorous  ;  and  she  had  the  faculty  of  dis- 
cerning at  a  glance  what  was  possible  or  reason- 
able, and  acting  accordingly,  without  more 
trouble  to  herself  than  if  the  matter  in  hand  had 
been  merely  some  whim  of  fancy.  She  ac- 
Jcnowledged  to  herself,  however,  that  she  had  one 
cherished  wish  :  to  devote  herself  seriously  to 
the  study  of  art,  in  which  she  had,  so  far,  under 
the  stress  of  circumstances,  received  just  suffi- 
cient instruction  to  earn  a  scanty  living  from  it. 

"  The  main  thing,  in  the  first  p.lace,"  she  said 
to  Bernard  one  evening,  as  her  mother  sat  sleep- 
ing in  her  chair  with  her  knitting  in  her  hand, 
"  is  to  try  and  place  myself  on  a  footing  of  inde- 
pendence. Shall  I  ever  attain  that  indepen- 
dence ?  Shall  I  ever  rise,  as  I  feel  that  I  have  it 
in  me  to  do  ?  Shall  I  ever  become  a  painter,  or 
must  I  always  remain  what  I  am,  a  mere  me- 
chanic, or  little  better  ?  " 


38  Expiation, 


She  pushed  away  from  her,  rather  resentfully, 
the  basket  which  she  was  ornamenting  with 
figures  in  arabesque. 

"  Talent  enobles  whatever  it  touches,  and  you 
are  showing  a  great  deal  of  it  in  these  worthless 
trifles.  You  will  attain  success,  even  by  the 
very  thorny  path  which  you  are  obliged  to  follow, 
and  which  I  would  so  gladly  make  smooth  for 
you  if  it  were  in  my  power." 

"  Thank  you  ;  but  do  not  flatter.  I  am  not 
aiming  at  success,  but  at  perfection,  and  I  shall 
never  reach  it,  going  on  in  this  way.  I  have  a 
great  secret,"  said  she,  lowering  her  voice  :  "  I 
have  almost  finished  a  flower-piece  for  the  expo- 
sition. I  have  not  told  mother  about  it ;  I  ex- 
pect that  it  will  be  rejected,  and  she  would  feel 
too  badly.  I  shall  not  allow  myself  to  be  dis- 
couraged.    I  will  make  another  effort." 

"You  are  over-taxing  your  strength." 

"  Oh  !  If  I  could  only  be  successful !  It 
seems  to  me  that  I  could  wish  for  nothing  beyond 
that." 

"  Nothing  ? "  said  the  young  man  interro- 
gatively." 

She  reflected  a  moment,  and  answered,  as  she 
resumed  her  painting,  "  Nothing  !  " 


Expiation,  39 


"  Have  you  never  thought  that  you  might  marry 
some  day?" 

"  Nobody  ever  marries  a  poor  girl,  so  they  say." 

"  A  person  like  you  is  not  poor.  Whatever  her 
fortune  may  be,  she  brings  with  it  more  than 
any  one  can  give  in  return." 

"  What  you  mean,  I  suppose,  is  that  she  will 
always  be  able  to  supply  her  own  wants  1 " 

"  I  mean  nothing  of  the  sort,"  replied  Bernard, 
with  emphasis.  "  When  I  marry,  my  wife  must 
be  willing  to  be  dependent  on  me  for  everything." 

"  You  are  selfish,"  said  Rose,  laughingly.  "  I 
shall  insist  on  my  husband  allowing  me  to  make 
good  use  of  my  time  and  be  of  assistance  to  him." 

"If  I  am  selfish,  you  are  proud.  Rose." 

"  Oh  !  no,  I  am  not,  for  I  shall  be  very  glad  to 
accept  at  his  hands  the  greatest  of  all  favors, 
only  let  him  suffer  me  to  do  my  work  after  my 
own  fashion." 

"  And  what  kind  of  a  man  do  you  think  he  will 
be,  this  husband  who  will  come  and  set  your 
genius  free  ?  " 

"  Who  thinks  ?  Who  has  time  to  dream  ?  " 
exclaimed  Rose,  joyously.  '*  But  when  the  time 
comes,  I  will  give  the  matter  serious  considera- 
tion, I  assure  you." 


40  Expiation. 


"  I  suppose  you  will  consult  your  friends  as 
well  ?  You  would  not  scorn  my  advice,  for  in- 
stance ?" 

"  That  would  be  ungrateful.  You  have  always 
treated  me  kindly." 

"Then  it  is  a  promise,"  said  Bernard  in  a 
voice  that  trembled  with  emotion.  "  You  agree 
never  to  bestow  your  hand  on  any  one  without 
first  telling  me  ?  " 

Rose  looked  over  toward  her  mother ;  her 
eyes  were  still  closed  in  the  most  confiding,  the 
sincerest  of  slumbers. 

"  What  an  idea,"  she  replied,  blushing,  with- 
out knowing  why  she  did  so. 

"  Then  you  won't  promise  ? " 

"  Oh  yes  ;  it  is  a  bargain  ;  I  won't  marry  with- 
out your  consent.  I  scarcely  think  that  I  shall 
have  to  come  to  you,  however  ;  who  would  ever 
want  to  have  me  ?  " 

Bernard  came  very  near  speaking  his  mind 
that  evening,  and  Madame  Aymes'  awakening, 
happening  as  it  did,  just  at  this  point,  perhaps 
was  timely.  After  this  time,  his  visits  were  less 
frequent ;  in  the  pleasure  of  their  increasing  in- 
timacy, in  the  strong  desire  that  he  felt  of  assur- 
ing himself  of  the  possession  of  a  treasure  that 


OF  THE     ^ 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Expiation.  41 


he  had  gazed  on  so  often  and  so  closely  that 
he  had  come  to  covet  it,  he  was  fearful  that  he 
might  not  be  true  to  the  promise  which  he  had 
given  Madame  Desaubiers.  The  two  young  peo- 
ple, however,  met  quite  frequently  at  this  lady's 
house  in  the  country,  and  as  she  looked  at  them 
from  her  window,  walking  side  by  side  along  the 
trim  little  garden  paths,  with  their  borders  of 
box,  she  reflected  that  whatever  the  future  might 
have  in  store  for  Bernard,  he  certainly  could 
have  no  better  mentor  for  the  present  moment. 

In  fact,  there  was  a  renewal  of  those  innocent 
Sunday  interviews  that  he  used  to  look  forward 
to  as  a  compensation  for  the  fatigues  and  trials 
of  all  the  week.  In  the  intervals,  too,  Rose's 
image  was  present  with  him  continually.  This 
was  so  far  from  interfering  with  his  studies  that 
it  kept  him  at  work  until  late  at  night.  The 
position  he  had  accepted,  it  is  unnecessary  to  say, 
was  only  a  stepping-stone  to  something  better, 
and  in  his  waking  dreams  he  saw  Rose  smiling 
to  him  from  the  heights  which  were  yet  for  him 
to  gain,  standing  by  his  side  in  time  of  peril,  caus- 
ing him  now  and  then  to  blush  for  follies  which 
the  best  of  young  men  cannot  always  entirely 
avoid,  and  inspiring  him  with  scorn  for  the  sneers 


42  Expiation. 


of  some  old  companions,  who  had  dubbed  him 
the  Seminarist. 

If  Bernard  had  found  a  guardian  in  Rose, 
Rose  had  found  happiness  through  Bernard. 
Her  mother  noticed  a  change  in  her  that  she 
could  not  account  for.  Madame  Desaubiers  was 
clearer  of  vision,  and  understood  why  it  was  that 
Dame  Wisdom,  as  she  called  her,  was  growing 
prettier  ;  she  knew  what  it  is  that  brings  the  sun- 
shine to  eyes  that  before  were  dull,  what  causes 
the  blood  to  course  more  rapidly  beneath  the 
transparent  skin  and  show  itself  in  the  mantling 
cheek,  what  adds  grace  and  dignity  to  the  bear- 
ing and  beauty  to  the  features.  Madame  De- 
saubiers now  understood  why  it  was  that  Bernard 
had  thought  her  charming ;  she  had  been  so  in 
his  eyes  before  any  one  else  had  discovered  it, 
or  rather,  perhaps,  she  was  indebted  to  him 
for  this  unexpected  beauty,  more  radiant  than 
any  other,  which  defies  conventional  rules  of  criti- 
cism and  is  only  the  ingenuous  outward  expres- 
sion of  an  inward  state  of  well-being.  Her  artis- 
tic talent,  too,  was  developing  under  the  impulse 
of  new  hopes.  A  few  days  after  that  evening 
when  Bernard  had  made  her  promise  that  she 
would  not  dispose  of  herself  without  first  consult- 


Expiation.  43 


ing  him,  he  received  a  letter  from  Rose,  the  only 
one  she  had  ever  written  him.  "  I  have  some- 
thing to  tell  you,"  said  she,  "  that  is  better  than 
the  finest  marriage;  my  picture  has  been  accepted 
at  the  Salon." 

It  was  a  short  note,  written  in  a  large,  child- 
ish hand,  and  had  none  of  the  polite  expressions 
or  commonplace  amenities  that  result  from  prac- 
tice of  the  epistolary  style.  Rose  seldom  had 
occasion  to  write,  and  could  not  boast  of  any  ele- 
gance in  the  art.  In  order  that  her  joy  might  be 
cohaplete,  she  had  desired  to  share  it  with  a  friend. 

Three  simple  words,  however,  the  very  last* 
ones  :  "  I  am  yours,"  carried  the  young  man 
away  into  a  world  of  blissful  dreams. 

The  flower-piece  received  some  notice  at  the 
Exposition  and  was  sold  for  a  good  price.  Rose 
could  now  look  forward  to  the  time  when  she 
might  be  able  to  give  up  her  make-shift  of  paint- 
ing fans  and  bon-bon  boxes  ;  in  the  mean  time 
her  skill  in  manufacturing  these  baubles,  her 
delicate  taste,  her  nicety  of  coloring,  her  correct 
drawing,  made  quite  a  demand  for  them  among 
the  shop-keepers.  Day  by  day  her  situation 
was  improving. 

The  case  was   not   the  same  with   Bernard, 


44  Expiation. 


who,  weary  of  the  irksome  and  ill-paid  work 
that  he  had  accepted  provisorily,  could  see 
no  definite  career  before  him.  Brought  up  with 
a  view  to  the  church,  and  with  a  good  solid  basis 
of  instruction,  outside,  however,  of  the  university 
routine  where  any  career  lies  open  to  a  man, 
provided  he  has  the  due  number  of  diplomas,  he 
had  devoted  himself  to  philology  and  had  culti- 
vated literature  without  profit  so  far  :  any  one 
who  respects  his  pen  cannot  hope  to  live.  Many 
places  were  mentioned  to  him  that  he  might  have 
filled  creditably,  but  not  one  of  them  was  given 
to  him.  In  the  Autumn  of  this  year  a  promising 
offer  came  to  him  unexpetedly  ;  a  great  foreign 
nobleman,  Count  Volonzoff,  wanted  a  preceptor 
for  his  son,  to  accompany  him  in  his  travels, 
which  were  made  necessary  by  the  state  of  the 
boy's  health, 

"  It  will  be  hard  to  find  the  right  man,"  he 
wrote  from  Italy.  "  A  mere  book-worm  would 
not  answer.  We  need  a  man  really  distinguished 
for  his  learning,  who,  while  making  due  allow- 
ance for  the  physical  weakness  of  his  pupil,  shall 
be  able  to  impart  to  his  keen  intelligence  the 
aliment  v/hich  it  requires  in  a  judicious  manner. 
Moreover,  he  must  be  a  man  of  feeling,  for  he 


Expiation.  45 


will  have  to  do  with  a  mind  that  is  not  quite 
right,  and  he  will  have  to  face  an  irremediable 
calamity.  He  must  be  prepared  for  this.  I 
know  that  I  am  asking  a  great  deal  :  conscience, 
devotion,  sensibility.  They  are  qualities  that  I, 
for  my  part,  have  never  placed  any  dependence 
upon,  but  I  want  to  believe  in  their  existence  to- 
day, for  the  welfare  of  my  son  is  at  stake."  M. 
Volonzoff's  attorney  knew  Bernard.  "  Accept," 
he  said  to  him.  "  You  will  have  an  opportunity 
to  travel,  which  every  young  man  ought  to  avail 
himself  of  when  it  is  presented  to  him.  You 
will  improve  your  manners  by  contact  with  per- 
sons of  refinement.  Your  intelligence  will  open 
and  bear  fruit,  while  here  it  will  be  crushed 
down,  and  finally  destroyed  by  your  daily  re- 
curring struggle  with  want.  You  will  be  well 
cared  for  by  the  Count,  who,  I  may  tell  you,  is 
an  extremely  kind-hearted  man.  And  you  will 
have  plenty  of  leisure.  Your  pupil  will  require 
the  services  of  his  physician  much  more  than 
those  of  his  preceptor.  He  is  said  to  be  a  very- 
unattractive  invalid,  but  you  will  become  at- 
tached to  him  through  compassion.  You  are 
good-hearted  and — don't  deny  it — a  little  ro- 
mantic.    These  two  qualities  are  often  counted 


46  Expiation. 


as  defects,  but  they  will  be  of  service  to  you 
here.  Besides,  you  are  not  entering  on  a  con- 
tract that  cannot  be  cancelled.  Go  and  pass  the 
winter  under  Italian  orange  trees.  Perhaps  you 
will  then  make  up  your  mind  to  stay  longer. 
The  salary  is  extremely  liberal." 

Bernard  was  aware  of  all  these  advantages, 
but  the  reverse  of  the  medal  appealed  to  him 
still  more  strongly.  He  would  have  to  part 
from  Rose.  When  he  first  mentioned  this  dis- 
tressing subject  to  her,  they  were  walking  to- 
gether at  Madame  Desaubiers'.  He  was  slowly 
strolling  on  the  bank  of  the  Seine,  under  the 
yellowing  trees,  idly  pushing  away  with  his  foot 
the  dead  leaves  that  strewed  their  path.  The 
harvests  were  all  in,  including  the  vintage. 
Here  and  there,  from  the  closely  shorn  fields, 
a  little  curl  of  smoke  arose,  gray  on  a  gray  sky. 
Rose  turned  very  pale,  but  after  a  moment's 
hesitation,  during  which  she  seemed  to  be  chok- 
ing down  her  feelings,  she  answered  :  "  You 
must  listen  to  the  dictates  of  reason  and  obey." 

"  Even  if  it  goes  directly  opposite  to  my  feel- 
ings ? " 

There  was  a  renewal  of  silence. 

"So  then  you  advise  me  to  go  away?"  said 


Expiation,  47 


Bernard,  in  a  tone  that  was  almost  one  of  re- 
proach. 

She  turned  her  head  away.  He  felt  hurt  by 
her  unconcerned  way  of  taking  it,  and  did  not 
see  that  her  eyes  were  suffused  with  tears.  At 
length  Rose  murmured : 

"  You  will  have  a  chance  to  see  the  world — " 

The  change  in  her  voice  made  him  start  ;  her 
efforts  had  been  unavailing  ;  the  tears  were  com- 
ing down. 

"  I  shall  find  nothing  in  the  world  so  dear 
as  what  I  am  leaving  here,"  said  he,  taking 
her  hand  with  sudden  warmth,  "  and  as  it  is  for 
your  sake  that  I  am  going  away,  so  I  shall  return 
to  you." 

As  if  bereft  of  her  senses,  the  young  girl 
scarcely  dared  to  believe  her  ears.  Bernard  said 
nothing  more.  Perhaps  he  had  said  too  much 
as  it  was,  only  he  retained  her  hand  in  his.  They 
both  had  stopped,  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  water, 
which  ran  by  in  its  silent  course.  To  them  it 
seemed  to  reflect  the  brightest,  purest  blue  of 
spring,  instead  of  October's  leaden  sky,  and  to 
quiver  with  all  the  emotions  which  were  agitat- 
ing their  own  breasts.  For  the  following  mo- 
ments they  felt  no  need  of  speaking  nor  even  of 


48  Expiation, 


thinking  ;  the  present  was  all  sufficient  for  them. 
The  leaves  that  had  been  rustling  but  an  instant 
since  were  quiet.  The  wind  also  held  its  breath 
for  a  space. 

"  Rose  !  "  said  Bernard,  softly. 

She  looked  at  him  through  tears  that  were 
more  joyful  than  smiles.  No  vows  were  spoken. 
What  would  they  have  served  ? 

Madame  Aymes,  who  was  behind  them  with 
Madame  Desaubiers,  here  joined  them.  Rose 
asked  her  mother  to  take  her  arm  for  the  re- 
mainder of  the  walk,  and  Bernard,  profiting  by 
his  ensuing  tete-a-tete  with  Madame  Desaubiers, 
without  further  preface,  announced  his  intention 
of  taking  a  tutor's  position  abroad.  At  the  name 
of  Count  Volonzoff  Madame  Desaubiers  drew 
back  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  She  made  him 
repeat  it  a  second  time. 

'*  Impossible  !  "  she  cried. 

**  You  are  acquainted  with  the  name  ?  "  asked 
Bernard,  also  very  much  surprised. 

"  How  should  I  know  it  ?  "  she  said,  hesitating. 

*'  Where,  then,  is  the  impossibility  ?  " 

'*  You  will  subject  yourself  to  an  intolerable 
restraint.  Preceptor  !  Why,  the  position  is  not 
far  removed  from  that  of  a  domestic." 


Expiation.  49 


"  I  am  promised  the  greatest  consideration. 
If  they  attempt  to  tyrannize,  I  can  easily  show 
that  I  am  a  free  man  by  giving  leg  bail." 

"  But  Rose  !  " 

"  Do  not  rob  me  of  my  courage,"  said  Ber- 
nard, mournfully.  **  It  will  be  better  for  both 
her  and  me  that  we  should  be  separated  until 
the  time  comes  when  we  can  be  united." 

Madame  D^saubiers  raised  her  hands  toward 
Heaven,  irresolutely,  as  if  distracted  by  doubts 
and  fears  ;  then,  letting  them  fall  again,  "  Thy 
will  be  done,  my  God  ! "  she  mentally  eja- 
culated. 

Two  weeks  afterward  Bernaad  took  his  de- 
parture for  Italy. 


50  Expiation, 


IV. 

BERNARD    TO    MADAME    D^SAUBIERS. 

Sestri,  Oct.  29th. 

HE  few  lines  that  I  sent  Rose  upon 
my  arrival  here,  in  order  that  you 
both  might  know  that  the  journey 
had  been  accomplished  in  safety,  must  have  left 
you  hungry  for  more  details.  Take  them,  then. 
I  will  try  to  give  them  in  due  order,  so  as  to  omit 
nothing.  And  in  the  first  place,  I  am  as  contented 
as  could  be  expected.  Above  all  I  am  pleased 
with  the  country  ;  not  that  Sestri  is  the  finest 
place  along  this  wonderful  Corniche  road,  that 
fairly  dazzled  me  for  two  days  with  its  beauty. 
Here  the  country  is  dry.  Not  a  drop  of  that 
rain  which  was  coming  down  in  torrents  when  I 
left  you  has  fallen  to  wash  the  pebbles  in  the 
Polcevera,  and  you  can  walk  dry  shod  in  the 
very  bed  of  the  stream.  Too  much  dust,  too 
many  rocks.     But  then  they  have  a  way  of  turn- 


Expiation.  5 1 


ingthe  rocks  into  gardens  by  means  of  a  revised 
edition  of  Armida's  art  ;  and  if  trees  obstinately 
refuse  to  grow  there,  very  well — they  paint 
them  on  the  hard  stone  in  such  a  way  as  to  de- 
ceive the  eye,  and  this  fantastic  kind  of  vegeta- 
tion has  a  merit  of  its  own  ;  it  reconciles  us  to 
the  practice  of  lying.  And  then  we  can  afford 
to  overlook  their  drought  and  their  execrably 
bad  taste,  for  we  have  the  Mediterranean,  its 
deep,  transparent  blue  meeting  the  tender  blue 
of  the  sky,  bearing  on  its  bosom,  like  so  many 
stately  swans,  a  fleet  of  vessels  that  are  making 
sail  toward  France.  Then,  toward  the  left,  in 
the  distance,  is  outlined  the  splendid  amphi- 
theatre of  the  city  of  palaces,  with  its  forts  and 
its  ramparts  climbing  up  the  steep  rock  ;  its 
marble  porticos,  the  spires  and  domes  of  its  hun- 
dred churches,  its  peerless  harbor  with  its  forest 
of  masts,  the  whole  confused  and  blended  to- 
gether by  the  effect  of  distance,  like  a  mirage. 
How  Rose  would  delight  in  these  beauties  of 
form  and  color  ;  fit  subjects  for  her  brush  to  in- 
terpret. I  wish  that  I  might  have  both  you  and 
her,  whom  I  love  so  well,  here  to  share  my  en- 
joyment. 

Among   the   villas   whose   blooming   terraces 


52  Expiation, 


descend  to  the  margin  of  the  sea,  that  of  the 
Count  is  one  of  the  most  elegant.  His  gardens 
are  full  of  mystery  and  enchantment,  and  make 
one  think  of  Tasso's.  Everything  in  them  is 
calculated  to  deceive  the  senses  ;  artificial 
caverns,  fountains  spouting  forth  their  streams 
in  unnatural  and  distorted  shapes,  make-believe 
ruins  that  on  one  side  present  the  appearance  of 
a  feudal  castle,  and  on  the  other,  a  thatched  cot- 
tage, a  gilded  bark  floating  on  a  lake  that  fills  as 
if  by  virtue  of  an  enchanter's  wand  ;  all  in  imita- 
tion of  the  famous  Villa  Pallavicini,  which  is  not 
far  from  here.  The  house  is  in  the  same  style  ; 
it  is  painted  pink,  like  a  coquettish  woman,  and 
its  magnificent  staircase,  lined  with  orange  trees, 
gives  it  a  charming  appearance.  I  modestly 
slipped  in  through  one  of  the  small  entrance 
ways,  after  having  seen  my  trunk  safely  mounted 
on  the  sturdy  shoulders  of  one  of  the  numerous 
porters,  who  are  always  on  hand  to  supply  the 
needs  of  travelers.  One  of  the  higher  servants — a 
kind  of  steward — met  me  with  excuses  ;  they  had 
not  expected  me  so  soon,  but  my  apartment  was 
ready  ;  would  it  please  me  to  retire  to  it  ?  I  was 
very  glad  to  have  an  opportunity  of  ridding  my- 
self of  the  dust  of  travel,  so  I   was  conducted 


Expiation,  53 


with  much  ceremony  to  a  chamber  so  large  and 
so  elaborately  decorated,  that  I  have  not  as  yet 
succeeded  in  making  myself  feel  at  home  in  it. 
Scarcely  had  I  changed  my  clothing  when  I 
heard  a  tap  at  my  door.  On  opening  there 
appeared  before  me  a  tall,  well-made  man  of 
distinguished  appearance.  His  lofty  forehead 
was  destitute  of  hair,  the  delicate  regularity  of 
his  features  announced  his  high  birth,  he  was 
inclined  to  paleness,  his  resolute,  firm  lips,  while 
they  showed  that  they  were  accustomed  to  com- 
mand, parted  in  a  charming  smile.  It  was  the 
Count.  With  the  greatest  politeness  he  enquired 
if  I  had  been  furnished  with  everything  for  my 
comfort,  then  taking  a  seat  with  an  air  of  unas- 
suming good  nature,  which,  as  I  afterward 
discovered,  by  no  means  prevents  him  from 
making  every  one  feel  the  immeasurable  distance 
that  there  is  between  himself  and  other  mortals, 
he  proceeded,  in  a  conversational  tone,  to  put 
me  through  a  kind  of  examination.  In  doing 
this,  his  questions  displayed  much  judgment. 
Whether  his  opinion  of  me  was  favorable  or  the 
reverse,  I  could  not  tell ;  he  allowed  no  sign  to 
escape  him.  When  his  tongue  had  ceased  its 
utterances,  he  continued  to  question   me  with 


54  Expiation. 


his  eye,  and  I  can  give  no  idea  in  words  of  the 
power  that  lay  in  that  glance.  Unless  when 
aroused,  his  eyes  are  dark  gray,  and  convey  to 
you  an  idea  of  disdainful  indifference  ;  there  is 
no  fire  in  them  and  they  have  a  deadened  look, 
like  those  of  a  wild  animal  composing  himself  to 
rest ;  in  conversation  they  light  up  with  an 
expression  of  cold,  clear  intelligence,  which 
causes  other  people  a  most  disagreeable  feeling 
of  inferiority,  and  at  once  freezes  up  any  dispo- 
sition toward  enthusiasm  or  gush.  What  is  the 
use  ?  this  look  of  his  seems  to  say  ;  there  is  noth- 
ing that  we  can  discuss  that  is  worth  the  heat 
of  an  argument.  Still,  the  Count  is  always 
ready  enough  to  argue,  and  he  keeps  his  con- 
versational claws  sharp  in  this  way,  as  we  some- 
times draw  a  sword  that  has  been  consigned 
to  the  scabbard  and  fence  a  little  with  it  to  keep 
it  from  growing  rusty.  But  I  am  anticipating. 
Toward  me  his  manner  was  one  of  exquisite 
courtesy.  The  undefined  feeling  of  scorn  and 
distrust  that  mankind  in  general,  I  suppose,  in- 
spire him  with,  is  concealed  beneath  the  cloak 
of  this  superficial  and  irresistible  charm  of  his  , 
for  my  part,  however,  I  should  prefer  more 
kindness  of  heart.     He  can  make  his   smile,  his 


Expiation.  55 


manners,  his  language  very  captivating  when  he 
sets  out  to  do  so,  but  beneath  it  all  there  can 
be  noticed  by  a  close  observer  that  he  is  acting 
from  a  set  determination,  and  he  makes  one 
wish  that  he  would  let  his  mask  fall  and  show  us 
a  natural  human  countenance,  whether  it  be 
grave  or  gay,  nay,  even  disagreeable.  I  must 
acknowlege,  however,  that  he  allowed  the  mask 
to  fall  in  speaking  of  his  son;  the  measured 
tones  of  his  voice  vibrated  with  a  mournful  in- 
flection. 

*'  I  will  make  you  acquainted  with  your  pupil," 
said  he.  "  Monsieur  X.  has  doubtless  spoken  to 
you  of  him,  but  I  must  again  beg  you  to  guard 
yourself  against  any  expression  of  surprise,  if  you 
find  him  unlike  other  children  ;  he  would  not 
fail  to  notice  it,  and  it  would  add  an  additional 
pang  to  all  the  suffering  which  we  are  vainly  en- 
deavoring to  spare  him." 

Before  I  could  reply,  he  raised  a  curtain  that 
hung  before  a  door,  and  I  immediately  found 
myself  in  the  presence  of  young  Dimitri,  as  he 
is  called. 

A  misshapen  little  creature  was  reclining  on 
a  couch  near  an  open  window.  Judging  from 
his  form,  as  he  lay  under  the  luxurious  covering 


56  Expiation, 


that  concealed  it,  he  might  be  a  child  six  or 
seven  years  old,  but  his  face  was  wrinkled,  sal- 
low and  faded,  and  his  cheek  bones  were  promi- 
nent. The  latter  defect,  which  is  to  be  found 
among  most  all  the  Slavonian  types,  is  also  no- 
ticeable to  a  certain  extent  in  his  father,  but 
modified  by  the  harmony  of  the  other  features, 
to  which  it  adds  an  expression  of  firmness  that  is 
almost  leonine,  while  in  the  case  of  the  boy  it 
adds  to  the  grotesque,  repulsive  uglinesss  of  a 
face  that  might  pass  for  that  of  a  malevolent 
genie.  The  only  expression  visible  on  his  coun- 
tenance, as  I  looked  on  it,  was  one  of  the  most 
sulky  ennui.  He  was  playing  at  dominos  upon 
a  low  table  that  stood  between  him  and  a  very 
light  complexioned,  spectacled  young  man  in 
black,  who,  as  we  drew  near,  arose  from  his  chair, 
and  remained  standing  in  an  attitude  of  severe 
obsequiousness.  The  boy,  without  otherwise 
stirring,  turned  upon  me  a  glance  in  which  I  de- 
ciphered the  dread  of  that  compassion  which 
strangers  are  accustomed  to  extend  to  him,  and 
which  is  extremely  repugnant  to  him.  I  felt  that 
the  Count  was  also  watching  me,  actuated  by  the 
same  feeling,  and  that  he  was  anxious  to  see  how 
I  would  pass  through  the  ordeal.     I  drew  near 


JSxpiation,  57 


and  extended  my  hand  with  a  smiling  face.  Be- 
fore giving  me  his  own,  the  child  cast  a  meaning 
glance  upon  his  poor,  lean,  long,  knotted  fingers, 
and  then  placed  them  regretfully  in  mine,  at  the 
same  time  saluting  me  with  an  inclination  of 
his  enormously  large  head,  which,  with  its  shock 
of  yellow  hair,  certainly  has  much  to  do  with  his 
grotesque  appearance. 

**  We  will  leave  you  to  become  acquainted 
with  each  other,"  said  the  Count,  nodding  affec- 
tionately to  his  son.     "Are  you  coming,  doctor?" 

The  young  man  of  the  spectacles  bowed  and 
retired  with  his  employer,  and  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  queer  pupil.  As  it  would  have  been 
rather  difficult  to  engage  him  in  conversation, 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  take  up  the  game  of  dom- 
inos  that  had  been  interrupted  by  my  entrance. 
When  I  proposed  this  to  him,  not  prefacing  my 
offer  by  any  remarks : 

**  It  will  be  of  no  use,  sir,"  he  replied  ;  "  I 
always  win.  You  can  see  that  Doctor  Scharf 
has  already  nearly,  if  not  quite,  lost  the  game." 

**  I  don't  think  that  you  will  get  the  better  of 
me  so  easily,"  said  I,  as  I  laid  down  a  piece. 

''We'll  see!" 

I  had  no  trouble  in  winning  the  first   game, 


58  Expiation, 


although  it  was  already  half  lost.  He  played 
badly,  and  was  inattentive  ;  still  my  success 
seemed  to  astonish  him,  while  at  the  same  time 
it  afforded  him  pleasure. 

*'  That  is  something  like,"  he  exclaimed. 
**  Monsieur  Scharf  thinks  that  I  do'nt  see  that  he 
loses  on  purpose." 

From  the  commencement  of  our  acquaintance, 
he  had  a  higher  esteem  for  me  than  for  the  doc- 
tor. I  resolved  to  follow  up  my  advantage,  and 
beat  him  another  game,  although  he  applied  him- 
self more  closely,  feeling  that  the  contest  was  in 
earnest. 

"  Really,"  said  I,  *'  you  are  old  enough  to  play 
a  better  game  than  you  do." 

This  struck  him  as  being  very  funny  ;  he  smiled 
as  a  little  East  Indian  despot  might  have  done 
when  some  one  had  ventured  to  be  familiar. 

**  How  old  do  you  think  I  am  ? " 

"  Possibly  you  are  ten." 

*'Yes,  I  am  ten  years  past.  But  you  are  the 
first  one  who  ever  took  me  to  be  as  old  as  I 
actually  am." 

"You  must  be  pretty  well  up  in  your  studies  ?" 
I  continued,  determined  to  treat  him  just  as  I 
would  treat  any  other  child. 


Expiation,  59 


"No,"  said  he  with  a  mournful  shake  of  the 
head.  "I  hardly  know  a  thing,  though  for  the 
last  three  years  I  have  had  instructors  in  every 
city  where  we  have  spent  the  winter  :  Rome, 
Naples,  Florence," 

I  interrupted  him  to  say  that  he  was  very  for- 
tunate to  have  been  able  to  visit  such  delightful 
places. 

"  You  think  that  I  am  fortunate  ?  Really  ? 
And  have  you  never  travelled  ?     Why  not  ? " 

"Because  I  am  poor." 

You  will  understand,  my  dear  friends,  that  I 
made  this  confession  as  to  my  poverty  with  great 
reluctance,  for  poverty  ceases  to  be  respectable 
when  stripped  of  its  cloak  of  dignified  reserve, 
but  in  order  to  make  the  evils  of  the  poor  child's 
life  appear  more  endurable  to  him,  I  had  to 
bring  to  his  notice  misfortune  in  another  form. 
My  efforts  at  consolation,  however,  proved  un- 
availing. 

"  Poor  ! "  he  repeated,  slowly,  as  if  he  failed 
to  catch  the  meaning  of  the  word.  "  Poor  !  " 
and  here  his  accent  betrayed  a  feeling  of  envy. 
"  I  have  often  seen  poor  people  ;  they  could  walk 
and  run,  they  were  strong  and  healthy.  When 
we  came  here  from  Genoa,  there  was  a  little  boy 


6o  Expiation, 


who  followed  our  carriage,  running  on  his  hands 
and  turning  somersaults.  How  I  would  have 
liked  to  change  places  with  him  !  But  no  one 
would  care  to  change  places  with  me." 

As  our  conversation  seemed  to  be  running 
into  a  rather  dangerous  groove,  I  changed  it 
by  asking  him  what  his  masters  had  taught  him. 

"A  little  history — but  I  can't  endure  history  ! 
I  cannot  read  the  stories  of  battles,  or  of  activity 
of  any  kind,  without  thinking  how  helpless  I  am, 
and  that  I  am  unlike  other  people  and  shall 
never  be  able  to  achieve  anything.  Then  I  studied 
Latin  a  while,  but  that  gave  me  the  head- 
ache and  bored  me  besides.  I  am  very  easily 
bored,"  said  he,  watching  me  out  of  the  corner 
of  his  eye. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  that  we  shall  get  along  to- 
gether without  boring  each  other,"  said  I  in  an 
off-hand  manner. 

At  this  my  pupil  uttered  a  little  exclamation 
expressive  of  doubt,  almost  of  defiance,  but  I 
had  an  answer  ready.  Passing  into  the  adjoin- 
ing room,  I  took  from  my  trunk  an  herbarium 
and  a  few  mineral  specimens.  You  have  seen 
them  and  know  that  they  are  no  great  treasures, 
but  never  did  a  fairy's  store  of  wonders  produce 


Expiation.  6i 


a  greater  effect.  These  poor  remains  of  com- 
mon-place plants,  that  had  been  gathered  in  our 
walks  as  souvenirs,  rather  than  as  specimens  of  any 
value,  were  the  first  that  the  poor  little  sick  boy 
had  ever  seen  preserved  in  this  manner.  He  is 
passionately  fond  of  flowers,  and  the  idea  that 
their  frail  lives  might  be  prolonged  was  one  that 
appealed  strongly  to  his  imagination.  I  had  to 
explain  to  him  that  a  penknife,  a  magnifying 
glass  and  a  few  sheets  of  coarse,  gray  paper  were 
all  that  was  required  to  work  this  miracle,  and 
then  proceeded  to  analyze  the  different  parts 
of  the  flower,  demonstrating  the  structure  of 
those  which  I  displayed  before  him,  telling  him 
their  names  and  whence  they  came,  and  giving 
detailed  information  upon  each  specimen.  All 
scientific  jargon  and  pedantic  nomenclature  were 
carefully  eliminated  from  this  first  lesson  in 
botany.  There  is  an  excellent  principle  in  edu- 
cation which  I  endeavor  to  keep  constantly 
before  me  :  that  to  instruct  children,  you  have 
only  to  see  that  they  have  a  clear  perception  of 
what  you  place  before  their  eyes.  I  intend  that 
this  child  shall  find  natural  objects  so  interesting 
as  to  induce  forgetfulness  of  self,  or  if  not,  then 
patience  and  resignation.     He  seems  already  to- 


62  Expiation. 


have  been  very  much  impressed  by  the  thought 
that  the  plants  which  have  most  the  healing  in 
them  are  not  the  brightest  or  most  beautiful. 

"  We  will  collect  a  magnificent  herbarium  in 
the  Alps,  where  I  am  to  pass  the  summer,"  he 
joyfully  said  to  me.  "  I  have  always  hated  them 
so,  but  now  I  shall  like  them  better." 

"What,  the  Alps?" 

"  Why,  yes.  Can't  you  understand  how  one 
wants  to  climb  the  mountains  when  they  stand 
there  so  temptingly  before  you  ?  Here,  on  the 
other  hand,  you  are  shut  in  by  the  sea  ;  the 
world  seems  to  end  at  Sestri,  and  I  am  not 
tormented  by  dreams  of  mountain-climbing,  from 
which  I  awake  only  to  find  myself  a  prisoner  in 
my  bed." 

"  Never  mind ;  you  shall  climb  mountains 
some  time.  We  will  go  together,  and  you  shall 
make  up  for  lost  time." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  an  impatient, 
scornful  movement. 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  can  make  me  feel 
better  by  telling  me  what  is  untrue,  like  my  old 
nurse,  who  was  always  telling  me  unlikely 
stories  ?  If  you  could  tiust  what  she  said,  there 
was  nothing  beyond  my  strength,  and  for  a  long 


Expiation.  6^ 


time  I  believed  her.  I  saw  myself  on  horseback 
going  to  the  wars,  or  riding  forth  to  discover 
strange  countries.  And  while  she  was  telling 
me  all  those  things,  she  knew  that  I  would  never 
get  well.  Servants  lie  to  flatter  one,  and  I  will 
not  have  them  about  me  any  longer." 

"I  shall  not  flatter  you,  but  you  must  remem- 
ber that  if  man  cannot  cure  your  malady,  God  is 
all-powerful." 

"  God  ? "  Words  cannot  express  the  look  of 
rebellion  and  satanic  hatred  that  contracted  his 
childish  features.  "  God  is  cruel  and  unjust.  What 
have  I  done  that  he  should  treat  me  thus  ? " 

His  blasphemy  ended  in  tears.  I  confess  that 
I  was  frightened.  I  gave  confused  utterance  to 
some  common-places  about  this  life  being  a  pe- 
riod of  probation  for  the  life  to  come,  which  is 
our  true  life. 

"  I  shall  never  go  to  heaven.  You  do  not 
know  me  ;  you  would  never  imagine  how  bad  I 
am.  I  beat  my  attendants  when  I  have 
a  chance,  I  torture  my  dog  ;  only  a  few  days 
ago  I  pulled  his  ears  with  red-hot  pincers." — Of 
course,  I  gave  expression  to  my  indignation. — "  I 
did  it  because  the  doctor  had  burned  me,  so  as 
to  cure  me  of  the  illness  which  God  had  afflicted 


64  Expiation. 


me  with.  When  I  inflict  suffering  on  my  servants 
and  on  dumb  animals,  I,  too,  seem  to  be  a  God, 
and  to  treat  them  as  He  treated  me,  and  revenge 
myself  for  my  sufferings." 

You  see  that  I  have  a  strange  pupil  to  deal 
with  ;  there  will  be  many  conflicts  between  us, 
and  I  will  not  fail  from  time  to  time  to  tell  you  of 
events  as  they  occur. 

"  And  are  you  in  the  habit  of  exposing  your 
evil  thoughts  in  this  way,  and  boasting  of  them  ? " 
I  asked  him. 

"  No,  Doctor  Scharf  allows  me  to  speak  nothing 
but  German,  and  I  don't  know  four  words  of 
that  language.  I  speak  French  more  fluently,  be- 
cause my  father  and  I  always  use  it  in  conversa- 
tion, but  I  never  speak  of  such  things  to  my 
father,  because  it  would  grieve  him." 

"  You  love  him  very  much,  then  ?  " 

"  He  loves  me  dearly  !  It  is  unfortunate  that 
we  are  never  together  for  any  length  of  time. 
He  is  always  sad  when  he  is  by  me," 

"  I  suppose  that  your  mother  is  with  you  more 
than  he  is  ? " 

"  You  do  not  know  how  much  she  has  to  oc- 
cupy her  time.  And  then  she  cannot  bear  the 
excitement  of  strong  emotions  ;  she  is  nervous  ; 


Expiation,  65 


extremely  nervous,  she  says  she  is."  The  child 
spoke  in  a  questioning  tone,  as  if  to  ask  me  the 
meaning  of  the  phrase. 

"  Suppose,"  I  asked,  "  we  commence  another 
game  of  dominos  ? " 

"No,"  he  replied,  checking  a  yawn,  "I  am 
tired  ;  I  would  rather  take  a  nap." 

"Sleep,  then,"  said  I,  as  I  smoothed  his  pil- 
lows, while  he  followed  my  movements  through 
his  half  closed  eyes,  in  which,  or  at  least  I 
thought  so,  there  appeared  the  dawning  gleam  of 
a  newly  awakened  sympathy.  There  was  a  ming- 
ling of  cunning  and  hardness  yet  to  be  detected 
in  his  glance,  however,  but  soon  under  the  calm- 
ing influence  of  slumber,  every  expression  de- 
parted from  his  wan  features  except  that  of  suf- 
fering. I  felt  myself  drawn  toward  him  by  an 
unspeakable  feeling  of  pity,  which  was  almost 
tenderness.  He  certainly  is  entirely  unlike  other 
children,  but,  hidden  in  the  depths  of  every  soul, 
and  still  more  so  when  that  soul  is  young,  there 
is  a  chord  that  can  be  made  to  vibrate.  Let  us 
try  to  find  it. 

I  went  out  upon  the  balcony  and  endeavored 
to  quiet  my  perturbed  feelings  by  a  survey  of  the 
landscape.     Soon   there   came   rolling   into  the 


66  Expiation. 


courtyard  an  open  carriage,  from  which  three 
persons  alighted  a  veiled  lady,  most  graceful 
in  carriage  and  elegant  in  dress,  another  lady, 
much  older  than  the  first,  and  a  young  man,  who, 
with  his  load  of  parasols  and  fans,  struck  me  as 
being  the  beau-ideal  of  the  Cicisbeo.  The  new- 
comers disappeared  within  the  villa ;  soon  I 
heard  the  opening  of  a  door  behind  me,  and  then 
the  sound  of  a  female  voice,  addressing  some  one 
with  all  kinds  of  caressing  phrases  in  a  language 
which  I  took  to  be  Russian.  These  ill-timed  en- 
dearments were  addressed  to  poor  Dimitri,  who, 
to  judge  from  his  groans,  found  the  process  of 
awakening  a  disagreeable  one.  Then  the  same 
voice,  this  time  in  Italian,  called  over  the  names 
of  a  number  of  sweetmeats  as  they  were  placed 
one  by  one  on  the  covering  of  the  bed. 

"  I  hope  that  you  will  like  them  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes  ;  I  shall  like  them  very  well.  But 
just  think,  mamma,  I  have  not  been  bored  to- 
day ;  my  new  teacher  is  here." 

"  Very  well.  I  suppose  you  will  soon  come  to 
hate  him,  like  all  the  rest." 

"  No,  indeed  ;  he  plays  a  good  game  of  domi- 
nos,  and  he  showed  me  an  herbarium.  Do  you 
know  what  an  herbarium  is,  mamma  ? " 


Expiation.  67 


"  A  collection  of  dead  plants,  I  suppose." 

"  And  each  one  with  its  name  attached  to  it. 
I  never  saw  anything  so  pretty." 

"  What  a  strange  taste  !  You  know  you  will 
not  have  live  roses  in  your  room." 

"  You  forget  that  I  cannot  bear  their  odor," 
sadly  replied  the  child.  It  appeared  to  me  that 
the  lady  was  deficient  in  maternal  instinct. 

"  What  kind  of  a  man  is  this  famous  teacher 
of  yours  ? " 

"Oh  !  he  is  very  nice,"  replied  Dimitri  with 
emphasis  ;  "  he  is  a  great  deal  better  than  Doc- 
tor Scharf." 

Unfortunately  the  sound  of  the  dinner  bell  at 
this  juncture  interrupted  my  pupil's  flattering 
criticism  ;  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  silk  dress, 
and  then  the  noise  of  a  closing  door  told  me  that 
the  child  was  alone  again.  As  I  came  out  from 
my  place  of  concealment,  where  I  had  remained 
through  a  feeling  of  foolish  diffidence,  I  heard 
him  sigh  : 

**  Now  I  shall  not  be  able  to  sleep  any  more." 

Five  minutes  afterward,  in  reply  to  the  sum- 
mons of  the  great  bell,  I  presented  myself  in 
the  drawing  room,  a  spacious  apartment  with 
lofty  marble  columns  and  adorned  with  frescos, 


6s  Expiation. 


where  the  Count  presented  me  to  his  guests,  the 
Marchioness  Fossombrone  and  her  son.  They 
are  the  owners  of  one  of  the  most  magnificent 
palaces  in  Genoa.  As  Madame  Volonzoff  had 
called  on  them  in  the  morning  and  had  brought 
them  back  with  her  to  dine,  this  fact  seemed  to 
me  to  be  evidence  that  there  was  a  certain  degreer 
of  intimacy  between  the  two  families,  but  Italian 
manners  are  so  free  from  ceremony  that  after  all 
the  acquaintance  may  have  been  only  a  casual 
one.  The  Marchioness,  majestic  in  her  embon- 
point and  with  very  regular,  though  somewhat 
retreating  features,  resembles  nothing  so  much 
ais  an  old  Melpomene  ;  she  toys  continually  with 
her  fan,  and  beneath  the  costly  lace  of  her  head- 
dress, keeps  rolling  a  pair  of  very  fine  eyes,  whose 
glances  gained  for  her  in  her  youth  that  reputa- 
tion for  gallantry,  which  she  still  wears  proudly, 
like  a  crown.  On  this  side  of  the  Alps,  an  ad- 
venture or  so  does  not  hurt  a  great  lady  if  she 
be  only  good-natured  and  unaffected. 

The  Marquis,  as  is  so  often  the  case  with  his 
countrymen,  is  something  between  an  Antinoiis 
and  a  hairdresser  ;  his  shoulders  are  too  broad, 
his  voice  is  too  resounding,  his  beard  is  too 
black  and  handsome  ;  he  throws  too  much  ardor 


Expiation.  69 


into  his  glance  and  too  much  eagerness  into  his 
smile  ;  above  all,  he  displays  too  many  diamonds 
on  his  shirt-front,  and  the  flower  on  the  lappel  of 
his  coat  is  too  full  blown.  He  may  be  set  down 
as  being  the  type,/d!r  excellence^  of  the  tenor  and 
the  cicisbeo. 

In  the  unconstrained  manner  that  is  said  to 
characterize  Italian  gentlemen  of  birth,  he  at 
once  began  by  asking  me  a  thousand  trifling 
questions  about  my  country,  at  the  same  time 
giving  utterance  to  a  thousand  inflated  eulogi- 
ums  of  his  own.  He  was  cut  short  by  the  ap- 
pearance of  Madame  Volonzoff  ;  he  at  once 
changed  the  subject,  and  in  his  admiration  of 
the  toilette  which  that  lady  displayed  for  our 
gratification,  he  soon  reached  the  end  of  his 
stock  of  superlatives.  I  shall  not  attempt  to  de- 
scribe this  toilette  ;  it  would  be  impossible.  Its 
slightest  details  harmonized  so  completely  with 
the  beauty  which  it  served  to  adorn,  that  it  would 
have  been  impossible  to  think  of  the  countess 
dressed  in  any  other  way.  You  must  not  ask 
me,  either,  to  detail  the  particulars  of  her  beauty, 
which  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  ancient 
marbles  that  Marchioness  Fossombrone  recalls 
to  recollection.      Hers  is  one  of  those  animated 


70  Expiation, 


faces,  whose  expression  is  constantly  changing 
and  affording  you  a  glimpse  of  a  different  being 
from  the  woman  you  were  but  now  looking  at. 
Her  hair,  arranged  with  a  negligence  that  gives 
token  of  the  highest  art,  is  neither  black  nor 
golden,  but  rather  of  that  color  which  the  poet 
sings  of,  that  of  the  cedar  that  has  been  stripped 
of  its  bark.  She  can  be  blonde  or  brunette,  as 
the  fancy  may  impel ;  on  the  evening  I  speak  of 
she  was  blonde.  To  judge  from  the  age  of  her 
son,  she  could  not  be  less  than  twenty-six  years 
old,  but  her  fresh  complexion  and  her  slender 
waist  give  her  the  appearance  of  a  young  girl. 
When  I  tell  you  that  she  is  of  Polish  origin,  it  is 
unnecessary  to  speak  of  the  nobility  and  grace 
that  characterize  her  bearing ;  her  mother  was  a 
native  of  the  country  where  every  woman  is  a 
queen. 

Although  Madame  Volonzoff  is  in  every  re- 
spect such  a  charming  person,  still,  for  little  Di- 
mitri's  sake,  I  would  have  preferred  that  she  had 
been  a  different  kind  of  woman,  and  the  preju- 
dice that  I  felt  against  her  before  I  had  even 
seen  her,  grows  stronger,  notwithstanding  the 
favor  by  which  she  distinguishes  me.  Her 
sole  object  seems  to  be  to  please,  and  her  every 


Expiation,  7 1 


effort  is  devoted  to  that  end.  So  far  I  have  not 
been  able  to  form  an  opinion  as  to  her  under- 
standing. The  dinner  was  preceded  by  a  course 
of  cold  side-dishes  and  fiery  beverages,  taken 
standing  ;  during  the  course  of  the  meal  itself, 
which  was  elegantly  served  in  Russian  style, 
the  conversation  ran  entirely  on  entertainments 
and  music,  adapting  itself,  doubtless,  to  the  taste 
of  the  Marchioness  and  her  good-looking  son, 
who  are  incapable  of  taking  an  interest  in  any 
more  serious  topic.  I  learned  that  Genoa  still 
rivals  Venice  in  the  splendor  of  her  carnival 
display,  although  attended  with  less  disorder; 
the  old  tomb-like  palaces  shake  off  their  dust 
for  the  occasion,  like  the  nuns  in  the  opera  of 
Robert  le  Diable,  sedan  chairs  plough  their  way 
through  the  crowds  on  the  narrow  streets  and 
leave  mysterious  dominos  at  marble  staircases  ; 
the  usual  motley  crowd,  officers  in  resplendent 
uniforms,  guelphs,  ghibellines,  abb^s,  pirates, 
courtiers  of  the  sixteenth  century,  goddesses, 
princesses  costumed  after  Veronese's  pictures. 
Last  year  the  Marchioness  appeared  as  a  Doge's 
wife,  in  a  costume  that  was  absolutely  historically 
correct,  and  attracted  a  great  deal  of  notice  ; 
she  proposes  to  give  a  masked  ball  this  season 


7  2  Expiation. 


that  will  be  celebrated  by  all  the  newspapers  of 
Italy.  At  this  announcement  Madame  Volonzoff 
clapped  her  hands  :  **  I  will  go  as  a  Roussalka," 
she  cried.  Marquis  Andrea  has  never  read 
Pouchkine,  and  was  forced  to  ask  what  is  a 
Roussalka.  When  it  was  explained  to  him,  the 
idea  of  seeing  the  Countess  transformed  into  a 
water  nymph  seemed  to  strike  him  as  a  very 
agreeable  one. 

*'  Will  you  be  able  to  get  the  exact  costume 
for  the  part  ?  "  asked  Madame  Fossomb rone  with 
her  characteristic  artlessness. 

The  Count  spoke  up  negligently  :  "  We  are 
all  aware  that  these  northern  sirens  use  their 
long  locks,  which  constitute  their  only  raiment, 
to  strangle  their  lovers  with,  but  I  fancy  that 
my  wife  will  see  fit  to  add  a  few  reeds,  at  least, 
to  this  primitive  toilette." 

"Oh  !  "  replied  the  Countess,  laughing,  "  there 
will  be  a  little  green  gauze  besides,  and  then  a 
great  many  diamonds  to  represent  drops  of 
water,  you  know,  and  it  will  all  come  from 
Paris." 

When  we  rose  from  table  I  tried  to  make  my 
escape,  but  the  Countess  graciously  insisted  that 
I  should  come  with  them  to  listen  to  some  music. 


Expiation.  73 


We  accordingly  returned  to  the  drawing-room, 
where  M.  Volonzoff  ensconced  himself  in  a  corner 
with  Doctor  Scharf,  and  commenced  an  argu- 
ment on  Kant's  Philosophy.  The  German  was 
blind  to  the  fact  that  his  adversary  was  only 
diverting  himself  at  his  expense,  and  supported 
his  obscure  theories  with  a  great  display  of 
erudition  and  with  all  possible  seriousness,  bring- 
ing up  ponderous  arguments  to  refute  a  cloud 
of  paradoxes  ;  it  were  like  a  squadron  of  heavy 
cavalry  charging  a  swarm  of  bees.  I  was 
amused,  and  smiled  involuntarily;  this  the  Doctor 
misinterpreted,  and  screwed  up  his  face  in  pity 
at  the  lack  of  intelligence  which  prevented  me 
from  following  the  discussion,  while  an  intelli- 
gent glance  from  the  Russian  showed  that  he 
was  aware  that  I  entered  into  the  spirit  of  the 
joke. 

While  this  was  going  on,  Countess  Annette,  as 
she  is  called  among  her  friends,  was  sipping  her 
coffee,  nestled  among  the  cushions  of  a  great 
divan  that  fills  the  embrazure  of  a  window. 
Madame  de  Fossombrone  was  fanning  herself 
vigorously,  and  her  son  was  plying  his  vocation 
of  lady's  man,  a  vocation  that  seemed  to  contain 
less  refinement  than  my  novel  reading  had  led 


74  Expiation. 


me  to  expect.  He  had  seated  himself  behind 
the  lady  of  his  thoughts,  and  from  where  I  sat, 
I  could  see  his  eyes  gleaming  beneath  his  Olym- 
pian brows  and  his  dark  complexion  glowing 
like  a  charcoal  fire  beneath  the  blacksmith's 
bellows,  while  his  whispered  impertinences  were 
received  without  any  display  of  anger.  The 
husband  did  not  appear  to  give  the  matter  the 
slightest  attention.  Is  this  the  result  of  polity 
custom  ?  It  is  scarcely  possible  that  it  can  re- 
sult from  indifference.  Is  it  not  rather  to  be 
attributed  to  his  cosmopolitan  experience,  which 
understands  the  disposition  of  the  different 
races  better  than  the  people  understand  them- 
selves, and  places  its  true  value  on  that  impres- 
sionable southern  nature  that  is  apt  to  blaze  up 
and  go  out  with  the  rapidity  of  a  fire  of  dry 
straw  ?  The  expression  of  the  Italian  counte- 
nance affords  to  the  bystander  no  possible  clue  to 
the  subject  of  conversation.  While  uttering  the 
merest  common-places  about  the  weather,  one 
would  think  that  these  sons  of  the  south  were 
either  devoting  themselves,  heart  and  soul,  to 
the  lady,  or  else  threathening  to  stab  her. 

"You    promised    us  some   music,"  suddenly 
said  the  Count. 


Expiation.  75 


His  wife  obediently  arose,  and  going  to  the 
piano,  which  stood  in  a  recess  in  the  wall — 
these  immense  apartments  always  seem  bare 
and  half  furnished — opened  it  and  played  the 
initial  bars  of  the  duo  " Mira  la  bianca  luna** 

I  had  a  pretty  good  idea  who  the  tenor  was  to 
be,  and  he  took  his  place  at  the  instrument 
without  hesitation.  Through  the  unshuttered 
windows  the  white  autumnal  moonlight  came  in 
and  silvered  the  columns  and  statues,  giving 
a  poetical  light  to  this  portion  of  the  room,  the 
lamps  having  been  removed  to  the  piano.  To 
give  M.  de  Fossombrone  his  due,  the  coxcomb 
is  a  great  artist,  but  what  shall  I  say  of  Madame 
Volonzoff' s  voice,  with  its  flexibility  and  great 
register ! 

She  paid  no  attention  to  the  compliments  of 
the  Marchioness,  who  could  not  find  words 
adequate  to  express  her  ecstasy,  but  turning  to 
the  doctor,  she  said  : 

"  Now,  scorner,  come  here  and  play  me  an 
accompaniment.  Perhaps  you  think  I  did  not 
notice  the  provoking  air  of  inattention  that  you 
put  on  just  now  while  I  was  singing  ;  you  seem 
to  think  that  your  Beethoven  is  the  only  com- 
poser in  the  world.     I  have  known  many  Italians 


J  6  Expiation. 


to  be  sincerely  enthusiastic  over  German  music, 
but  I  never  knew  a  German  who  could  listen  to 
Italian  music  without  showing  his  contempt  for 
it." 

The  doctor  parried  her  thrusts  as  well  as  he 
could,  "Oh,  Countess,"  he  said,  no  doubt  going 
back  to  some  old  dispute,  "  it  is  ever  so  long 
since  you  put  my  patriotic  prejudices  to  rout, 
but  I  beg  that  you  will  spare  me,  and  not  compel 
me  to  admire  your  Verdi's  newfangled  empti- 
ness." 

"  You  will  like  Verdi  if  I  desire  it,"  said  she, 
tapping  his  shoulder  with  her  fan  with  a  charm- 
ing air  of  command.  In  the  look  which  he  gave 
her  in  reply,  I  thought  I  could  discern  a  little 
spite,  tempered  by  other  emotions. 

"  Now  we  will  try  and  convert  the  Marquis  to 
the  worship  of  the  German  divinities.  Listen, 
Marquis,  and  let  us  have  your  criticism  ;  I  am 
going  to  give  you  a  Polish  movement." 

You  are  aware  that  Gonoud  in  his  opera  of 
Faust^  has  successfully  adapted  in  certain  por- 
tions, characteristic  Polish  themes,  and  it  was 
one  of  these  airs  that  we  now  listened  to,  exe- 
cuted in  a  masterly  manner.  When  it  was  con- 
cluded the  Countess,  addressing  me,  said  : 


Expiation,  77 


"  This  is  for  you,  Mr.  Frenchman."  And  she 
sang  a  Bohemian  song.  This  is  the  only  music 
that  affords  the  Count  any  pleasure  ;  he  drew 
near  and  said  to  her  : 

"  That  is  perfection." 

Addressing  me,  she  enquired  :  "  How  did  you 
like  it,  sir  ? "  In  her  avidity  for  praise,  it  seems 
that  no  voice  is  of  so  small  account  as  to  be 
beneath  her  notice ;  she  insists  on  gathering 
them  all  in. 

"It  seemed,"  I  replied,  "  as  if  I  was  listening 
to  the  Roussalka  that  we  were  talking  about  a 
while  ago." 

In  fact,  the  song,  while  untrammeled  by  the 
laws  of  harmony  as  understood  in  civilized 
countries,  carries  one  away  by  some  indescrib- 
able, intoxicating,  mysterious  charm  of  its  own. 
She  smiled,  and  more  than  ever  made  me  think 
of  the  Roussalka.  The  Marquis  and  the  Doctor 
were  dumb.  Leaving  them  under  the  spell  of 
fascination,  I  returned  to  my  room  and  tried  to 
read,  but  was  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by 
the  groans  that  came  from  my  pupil's  chamber 
and  by  the  whisperings  of  the  old  nurse,  en- 
deavoring to  quiet  him  and  dispel  the  insomnia 
that  continually  waits  on  him.      In  fitful  gusts. 


78  Expiation, 


through  the  doors  that  had  been  left  open  below 
there  came  to  me  the  strains  of  the  piano,  the 
notes  sharp   and  brilliant  as  a  display  of  fire- 
works. 

It  is  sad  to  notice  the  contrast  between  the 
pitiable  condition  of  the  boy  and  the  unreflect- 
ing gayety  of  the  mother  ;  it  has  inspired  me 
with  an  invincible  dislike  for  her.  After  an 
evening  so  filled  with  new  impressions,  I  feel  the 
need  of  strengthening  myself  by  communing  in 
the  spirit  at  least  with  my  guardian  angels  in 
France.  The  cosmopolitanism,  if  I  may  say  so^ 
of  this  household,  and  the  absence  of  home  feel- 
ing, have  produced  an  unpleasant  disturbance  in 
my  thoughts  ;  as  I  write,  a  delicious  peace  comes 
back  to  me.  I  seem  to  be  restored  to  my  native 
land,  with  its  familiar  customs  in  all  their  pureness, 
truth  and  simplicity,  and  my  heart  flies  to  you  as 
to  a  port  of  refuge. 

I  shall  keep  this  letter  open  until  to-morrow. 

28th  October. 

This  morning  I  devoted  to  an  exploration  of 
the  terraces,  which  wind  upward,  growing  nar- 
rower as  they  ascend,  something  like  a  conical 
sea-shell  in  form,  and  are  covered  with  flower 
gardens  of  great  beauty  and  variety  of  design. 


Expiation,  79 


The  first  stair-case  that  I  took  brought  me  into  a 
plantation  of  camphor-trees  and  other  exotic 
laurels,  and  there  I  found  Doctor  Scharf,  taking 
his  morning  walk,  with  a  volume  of  Humboldt  in 
his  hand.  Although  apparently  engrossed  in  his 
book,  he  recognized  me  and  saluted  me  in 
French.    I  replied  to  him  in  German. 

"Ah  !  you  speak  my  native  tongue,  sir?" 
"  I  am  slightly  acquainted  with  all  languages." 
"  Really  ?     So  you  have  philologists  at  Paris  ? 
The  talent  will  be  of  use  to  you  here,  for  as  you 
will  already  have  observed,  our  villa  is  a  tower  of 
Babel  in  miniature.     Still,  however,  French  pre- 
dominates, as  it  does  in  all   Russian  families  of 
distinction.     Strange,  that  this  people,  which  as- 
similates so  much,  has  nothing  that  it  can  call  its 
own,  not  even  a  language." 
"Still  they  have  a  literature." 
The    Doctor    shrugged     his    shoulders    and 
glanced  at  his  volume  of  Humboldt,  as  if  calling 
on  it  to  bear  witness  to  the  absurdity  of  such 
a  proposition  ;  then  he  continued  : 

"  You  also  are  an  early  riser,  I  see,  and  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  it.  How  sweet,  and  at  the 
same  time,  how  melancholy  is  the  perfume  ex- 
haled by  these  flowers,  the  last  of  the  year  !    Of 


8o  Expiation. 


all  the  hours  of  the  day  this  is  my  favorite,  but 
until  you  came,  I  had  no  one  to  share  my  liking 
with  me.  Nature  has  no  attraction  for  any  one 
here.  The  freshness  of  the  morning  is  wasted, 
for  the  curtains  are  kept  closely  drawn  until 
noon,"  and  M.  Scharf,  as  he  spoke,  pointed  to 
the  front  of  the  villa.  *'  It  is  very  true  that  they 
sit  up  until  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  amusing 
themselves  with  cards,  cigarettes,  and  what  they 
are  pleased  to  call  music." 

"  But  is  not  the  Countess  a  very  good  musi- 
cian ?"  I  ventured  to  ask. 

"You  had  an  opportunity  of  judging  last 
night." 

"  But  I  make  no  pretensions  to  being  a  judge, 
and  I  know  that  I  am  not  hard  to  please." 

"  Well,  she  certainly  has  a  good  voice,  and 
some  natural  taste,  but  she  is  lacking  in  culture ; 
she  thinks  that  everything  comes  to  her  by  in- 
tuition, so  she  sings  as  she  does  everything  else, 
right  or  wrong,  hit  or  miss,  without  discernment, 
study  or  conviction." 

With  a  cunning  which  does  not  form  part  of 
my  character,  but  which  circumstances  made  im- 
perative, I  was  resolved  that  he  should  talk 
freely,  for  when  we  are   in   strange  waters  we 


Expiation.  8] 


must  know  the  shoals  if  we  would  avoid  ship- 
wreck. 

"  For  a  person  of  such  kind  disposition,"  I 
said  to  him,  "you  seem  to  be  severe." 

"  Kindness,  sir,  is  a  quality  of  no  great  im- 
portance. We  are  talking  of  art,  and,  perhaps,  I 
carry  my  worship  of  it  to  too  great  length.  As 
I  feel,  it  is  impiety  toward  Bach,  Beethoven, 
Haydn,  those  divinities  of  my  native  land,  truly 
God-like  in  art,  to  treat  their  immortal  works  as 
we  would  treat  what  one  of  my  countrymen  calls 
Rossini's  melodious  butterflies.  Ah  !  If  you 
could  only  hear  my  little  sisters  !  There  is  con- 
science, feeling  and  purity  for  you  !  They  are 
in  Germany,  thank  God,  while  I,  for  my  sins,  am 
compelled  to  be  in  Italy." 

The  Doctor's  childhood  was  passed  in  Prus- 
sian Silesia,  and  he  conducted  his  studies  in 
Berlin,  but  that  unreasoning  feeling  that  makes 
us  consider  the  nook  where  we  were  born,  no 
matter  how  forbidding  it  may  be,  the  most  beau- 
tiful spot  of  earth,  is  at  once  so  touching  and  so 
deserving  of  our  respect,  that  I  was  silent  upon 
the  question  of  his  regrets. 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  you  left  your  country  ? " 
I  asked. 


82  Expiation, 


'*I  have  been  an  inmate  of  this  household 
since  I  left  it.  I  was  not  rich  enough  to  devote 
myself  exclusively  to  science,  as  it  was  my  wish  to 
do,  and  as  it  is  my  intention  to  do  when  my  time  of 
exile  shall  be  over,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  there 
were  many  difficulties  in  the  way  of  my  stepping 
immediately  into  practice  as  a  physician.  While 
matters  stood  thus.  Count  Volonzoff  begged 
me  to  remain  with  his  son,  to  whom  I  was 
able  to  afford  relief  in  one  of  his  acute  attacks 
at  the  time  when  the  family  were  passing  through 
Berlin.  He  tempted  me  with  a  large  salary,  but 
the  motive  that  chiefly  swayed  me  was  humanity, 
together  with  the  desire  to  study  a  case  of  which, 
fortunately,  there  are  but  few  examples." 

*'  What  is  the  nature  of  this  horrible  disease  ?  " 

*'You  have  seen  the  poor  child.  Nature,  al- 
ways compassionate,  has  mercifully  decreed  that 
he  shall  not  live  ;  he  will  not  survive  his  fifteenth 
year,  even  if  he  reaches  that  age.  Still,  I  have 
never  dared  to  entirely  deprive  his  parents  of 
hope.  Who  could  have  the  heart  to  do  so  ?  An 
only  son  ! " 

"  But  what  could  have  been  the  cause  of  such 
a  calamity  ? " 

"  The  Count  maintains  that  his  wife  is  respon- 


Expiation,  S3 


sible  for  it.  During  the  time  of  her  pregnancy, 
she  persisted  in  adhering  to  the  wild  manner  of 
living  that  she  is  so  addicted  to,  regardless  of 
advice,  heedless  of  what  might  happen.  She  was 
nearly  killed  by  a  fall  from  her  horse  ;  contrary 
to  all  expectation,  she  recovered,  but  the  child 
paid  the  penalty  of  her  imprudence.  That,  at 
least,  is  the  story  that  they  tell.  I  hardly  know, 
for  my  own  part,  what  to  believe.  Even  had 
there  been  no  accident.  Count  Volonzoff's  child 
would  likely  have  been  stunted  and  sickly. 
These  aristocratic  families,  that  are  eaten  up  by 
ulcers,  physical  as  well  as  moral,  still  flatter  them- 
selves with  the  belief  that  they  can  produce 
strong  and  healthy  children  ! 

"It  is  said  that  when  the  Count  married,  it 
was  when  he  was  no  longer  in  his  early  youth,  a 
youth  that  had  been  spent  in  all  kinds  of  ex- 
cesses. Be  that  as  it  may,  his  pride  must  suffer 
cruelly  from  such  an  affliction." 

"  And  his  feelings  still  more,  I  should  imagine." 
"  Oh  !  As  for  feelings,  I  doubt  very  much 
if  he  has  any,  though,  no  doubt,  he  has  a  heart 
to  perform  its  proper  muscular  action.  When 
you  shall  have  heard  him,  as  I  have,  treat  with 
the   utmost  contempt  duty,  virtue,    everything 


S4  Expiation, 


that  is  good  and  true,  justifying  in  cold  blood 
the  very  worst  and  basest  social  and  political  in- 
stitutions, pleasantly  excusing  vice  on  the  ground 
that  the  standard  of  morality  differs  at  different 
times  and  among  different  races  and  in  different 
climates,  and  saying  that  he,  for  his  part,  is  a  citi- 
zen of  the  world,  you  will  admit,  I  think,  that  he 
is  endowed  with  a  magnificent  intellect,  but  that 
as  regards  natural  feeling,  he  is  entirely  deficient  in 
it.  And  to  think  what  a  source  of  torture  to  him 
his  vanity  must  be  !  That  the  heir  to  a  name  that 
is  inscribed  in  the  velvet  book  should  be  reduced 
to  such  a  state  !  The  Count  is  inconsolable. 
After  allowing  himself  for  years  to  be  deceived 
by  false  hopes,  after  having  consulted  the  high- 
priests  of  science,  and  then  having  had  recourse 
to  all  the  quacks  of  Europe,  he  has  at  last  been 
compelled  to  admit  that  fate  dared  to  oppose  him 
and  was  even  stronger  than  he.  Then  came  the 
sudden,  unrelenting  abandonment  of  every  thing 
that  he  had  been  striving  for  in  life  ;  he  gave  up 
a  brilliant  career,  because  its  splendor  would  at- 
tract public  attention  to  him  and  to  his  affairs. 
He  could  not  endure  the  disgrace  of  being  com- 
miserated after  having  been  admired  and  envied. 
He  renounced  his  country.  You  will  tell  me  that 


Expiation,  85 


this  was  not  a  sacrifice,  for  the  Russians  are  to 
be  found  in  every  quarter  of  the  world,  except 
their  own  country ;  but  he  does  not  travel  for 
his  own  pleasure  ;  his  object  is  to  withdraw  his 
son,  poor  sufferer  that  he  is,  from  the  gaze  of 
the  public. 

'*  He  is  taken  to  the  mountains  for  the  summer, 
to  warmer  climates  for  the  winter.  This  year 
the  beauty  of  the  location  decided  our  coming 
here,  though  the  Countess  was  very  much  op- 
posed to  the  selection.  She  likes  to  go  from  one 
great  city  to  another  and  pose  as  queen  over  the 
festivities  that  are  held  there.  That  you  can 
understand." 

**  That  I  can  understand  ? "  I  repeated,  almost 
beside  myself  with  indignation.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  it  is  possible  that  this  mother " 

"  My  dear  sir,  "  the  Doctor  interrupted,  in  the 
peremptory  and  dogmatic  manner  which  is  char- 
acteristic of  him,  "  I  came  from  a  country  where 
to  be  a  mother  of  a  family  means  to  be  a  model 
for  her  sex.  In  our  country  the  mother  of  a  child 
afflicted  like  Dimitri  Volonzoff  would  be  con- 
stantly at  his  bedside,  watching  over  him  and 
praying  for  him  ;  but  we  are  here  discussing 
Countess  Annette.     She  is  of  the  world,  worldly; 


86  Expiation. 


she  is  fond  of  what  people  generally  are  fond  of. 
She  would  have  adorned  one  of  those  pretty  ba- 
bies that  you  can  trick  out  with  ribbons  and  lace 
until  they  look  like  a  big  handsome  doll ;  if  she 
had  had  a  son  who  was  very  strong,  gay  and  in- 
telligent, perhaps  she  might  have  been  proud 
enough  of  him  to  pardon  him  for  making  her 
seem  a  little  older  ;  but  the  sight  of  suffering  en- 
tirely upsets  her  delicate  nerves,  and  the  sight 
of  anything  disagreeable  frightens  her.  After 
her  fashion,  she  makes  a  display  of  her  courage 
and  devotion  two  or  three  times  a  day  by  paying 
a  visit  to  this  deformed  creature,  in  whom  she 
can  see  nothing  to  remind  her  of  herself.  It  hu- 
miliates her  to  think  that  he  is  flesh  of  her  flesh, 
and  then,  although  conscience  is  among  the  least 
developed  of  her  faculties,  the  sight  of  him 
causes  her  a  certain  feeling  of  remorse  which  she 
endeavors  to  stifle,  for  it  is  natural  for  us  to  bear 
ill-will  toward  those  whom  we  have  injured ; 
moreover  the  birth  of  the  child  marked  the  be- 
ginning, not  of  a  misunderstanding  between  her 
and  her  husband  :  the  good-breeding  that  regu- 
lates their  intercourse  acts  as  a  bar  against  those 
quarrels  and  recriminations  which  divide  the 
homes  of  common  people  :    but  of  a  coldness, 


Bxpiation.  87 


which  women  like  her,  accustomed  to  be  idolized, 
do  not  t»ake  kindly  to." 

"  From  what  you  tell  me,  I  should  think  that 
she  must  incur  the  hatred  of  every  one." 

The  Doctor  shook  his  head,  "  No  one  can  hate 
the  Countess."  And  he  took  a  few  steps,  his 
eyes  cast  down  as  if  he  were  counting  the  grains 
of  sand  in  the  path.  "She  is  a  coquette,"  he 
resumed,  "  and  coquettes  can  be  neither  wives 
nor  mothers.  You  have  had  experience  of  them 
in  France  !  " 

"  I  know  no  women  in  my  country  except 
those  who  are  worthy  of  the  highest  respect," 
I  replied,  nettled  by  this  slur  of  his. 

"  Very  good  !  That  is  what  I  call  real  gal- 
lantry. But  you  are  so  young,  likely  you  have 
never  gone  away  from  the  family  circle,  outside 
of  which  there  is  nothing  but  deception." 

I  remembered  my  resolution  to  be  uncommu- 
nicative on  this  subject,  and  shut  off  his  ques- 
tions by  answering  stiffly  : 

"I  have  no  family." 

His  expression  softened,  without  affecting  me 
materially. 

"  If  that  is  the  case,"  said  he,  "I  am  happier 
than  you."     And  he  proceeded  to  give  me  a  de- 


88  Expiation. 


tailed  and  lengthy  account  of  his  family,  begin- 
ning with  his  venerable  parents  and  ending  with 
such  a  formidable  array  of  brothers  and  sisters 
that,  however  great  his  stock  of  affection  may  be, 
he  must  at  times  be  troubled  to  find  sufficient  to 
go  around.  "  How  I  pity  you,"  he  added,  "that 
you  have  no  one  whom  you  can  love  !  " 

"  What  is  to  prevent  me,"  I  replied,  "  from 
forming  an  attachment  for  this  pupil  whom  Provi- 
idence  has  thrown  in  my  way,  as  there  seems  to 
be  no  better  object  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !  "  cried  Scharf ,  abruptly  for- 
saking the  sentimental  tone,  "  you  know  nothing 
of  this  little  crippled  tiger.  Give  up  such  an 
idea  ;  you  would  never  succeed  in  taming  him. 
For  three  years  I  have  been  caring  for  him  the 
best  I  know  how,  and  he  can't  bear  the  sight  of 
me." 

But  every  one  conquers  with  the  weapons  that 
are  given  him,  and  I  don't  believe  that  M.  Scharf 
has  selected  the  best  method  in  looking  upon 
this  poor  child  simply  as  something  to  be  ob- 
served and  operated  on  in  the  interest  of  science. 
It  would  not  be  so  bad  if  he  thought  there  was 
any  prospect  of  effecting  a  cure. 

At  this  moment  a  little  boy  in  a   silk   blouse 


Expiation,  89 


and  kid  boots  came  up  to  us  with  a  request  for 
the  doctor  to  go  to  his  patient,  who  had  just 
awakened. 

"  Come  here,  F^dor,"  said  the  German,  "  and 
show  us  how  your  master  treats  his  foster- 
brother." 

Fedor  put  back  the  hair  that  hung  down  on 
each  side  of  his  chubby  little  face,  and  displayed 
his  cheek  marked  with  stripes  from  the  blows  of 
a  riding-whip. 

"  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  What  do  you 
think  of  our  interesting  little  martyr's  method  of 
expressing  his  gratitude  to  those  who  serve  him?" 

"  Why  did  you  let  him  beat  you  ?  "  I  asked, 
indignantly. 

**  Ah  !  You  are  going  still  further,  and  intend 
preaching  the  rights  of  man  to  this  breed  of  serfs 
who  have  been  brought  up  to  love  the  lash  ? 
The  labors  of  Hercules  would  have  an  attraction 
for  you.     I  wish  you  luck  !  " 

We  separated  thereupon.  The  conversation 
that  we  had  had  together  did  not  seem  to  have 
engendered  any  very  strong  marked  sympathy. 

It  seems  to  me  that  this  very  learned  young 
man  expatiates  with  considerable  complacency, 
taking  into  consideration  how  short  a  time  we 


90  Expiation. 


have  been  acquainted,  upon  the  inmost  details 
of  his  virtuous  home,  that  he  professes  to  sys- 
tematically decry  and  deride  everything  which 
does  not  come  from  Berlin,  and  that  the  severity 
with  which  he  denounces  the  Countess  betrays 
the  fact  that  he  is  in  love  with  her.  As  far  as 
the  Count  is  concerned,  I  would  wager  that  the 
worst  that  he  can  be  reproached  with  is  his  dis- 
position to  quiz,  of  which  I  had  a  sample  last 
night.  Perhaps  the  Doctor,  after  a  night's  re- 
flection, has  been  able  to  see  that  the  attack  on 
Kant  was  only  a  feint,  designed  to  show  the 
superiority  of  champagne  and  wit  over  beer  and 
pure  reason.  And  even  if  the  poor  little  tiger 
did  raise  his  claws  and  give  him  a  scratch  or 
two,  should  he  not  have  tried  to  gain  his  affec- 
tion, knowing  as  he  does  better  than  any  one 
else  does  what  he  has  to  suffer  ?  I  look  upon 
him  as  a  disagreeable  pedant,  and  a  feeling  of 
rivalry  comes  over  me,  with  a  desire  to  beat  him 
in  the  difficult  game  we  are  playing. 

My  letter  has  assumed  the  proportions  of  a 
volume.  It  is  my  intention  to  send  you  regular- 
ly the  daily  account  of  my  impressions  and  my 
discoveries,  taking  special  pains,  be  it  under- 
stood, to  mail  my  letters  with  my  own  hand,  for 


Expiation,  91 


among  such  a  crowd  of  servants  there  is  always 
the  risk  of  something  happening  that  ought  not 
to,  and  perhaps  my  portraits  might  not  prove 
pleasing  to  the  sitters,  should  they  chance  to 
fall  into  their  hands. 

Rose  Aymes  was  at  Madame  Desaubiers' 
when  this  letter  arrived.  It  was  read  by  the 
two  ladies  in  common. 

"  How  far  away  from  us  he  is,"  murmured  the 
young  girl  when  the  reading  was  finished.  In 
speaking  thus,  she  was  not  thinking  of  mere 
physical  distance.  A  little  later  she  retired  to 
her  room  and  abandoned  herself  unconstrainedly 
to  the  feeling  of  sadness  which  oppressed  her. 
The  reason  of  her  sadness  she  could  not  explain 
even  to  herself.  Were  the  news  bad  ?  No,  cer- 
tainly they  were  not. 

Madame  Desaubiers  read  and  re-read  many 
times  with  a  heavy  heart  these  long  pages  that 
had  come  to  them  from  Italy.  They  awoke  in 
her  remembrances  that  the  struggles  of  twenty 
years,  as  she  had  to  confess  to  herself,  had  been 
powerless  to  conquer.  Many  a  vague  fear,  too, 
and  many  a  scruple,  such  as  would  have  hardly 
been  expected  to  exist  in  so  well  disciplined  and 


92  Expiation. 


such  a  firmly  Christian  mind,  added  their  dis- 
turbing influences  and  drove  sleep  from  her  pil- 
low that  night. 

She  was  very  reticent  in  her  reply  to  Bernard, 
and  her  letter  abounded  in  mysterious  hints. 
"  You  are  very  young,"  she  said,  "  and  have  very 
little  acquaintance  with  the  world,  to  live  in  a 
household  where  there  are  so  many  conflicting 
interests  to  be  conciliated.  Maintain  the  strict- 
est silence  concerning  your  past  toward  all 
curious  enquirers,  even  should  their  enquiries 
seem  to  be  dictated  by  good-natured  motives ; 
shroud  yourself  in  the  reserve  that  you  displayed 
toward  that  German,  though  you  will  probably 
find  it  more  difficult  to  maintain  that  attitude 
should  the  investigations  come  from  feminine 
sources. 

"  The  name  of  one  of  the  persons  that  you 
speak  of  once  came  into  my  life  in  connection 
with  circumstances  that  caused  me  great  suffer- 
ing. I  look  with  great  dread  upon  the  prospect 
of  my  being  recalled  to  the  recollection  of  this 
person.  Be  prudent,  then,  for  your  old  friend's 
sake,  as  well  as  for  your  own,  and  to  be  on  the 
safe  side,  send  all  your  letters  to  the  address  of 
Mariette — Madame  Hubert." 


Expiation.  93 


N  a  few  weeks  Bernard  had  suc- 
ceeded in  gaining  the  affections  of 
his  pupil.  •*  This  spoiled  child  shall 
know  what  it  is  to  be  happy,"  he  had  said,  and 
although  the  pledge  seemed  a  rash  one  to  make, 
he  had  been  able  to  make  it  good.  He  was  the 
constant  companion  of  Dimitri,  who,  under  cer- 
tain aspects,  seemed  to  be  his  senior,  thanks  to 
the  satiety  produced  by  an  unlimited  command 
of  money  and  what  it  will  buy,  and  his  own  in- 
vincible selfish  and  domineering  habits.  Thus 
was  justified  Dr.  Scharf's  saying  :  "  Russians  are 
only  elderly  children,  and  their  children  are  little 
old  men." 

Little  by  little  the  tastes  of  this  small  hot- 
house abortion  were  modified  and  directed  to- 
ward natural  objects,  ingeniously  disguised  under 
the  garb  of  amusements  suited  to  his  age.   How- 


lfOHH\K 


94  Expiation. 


ever  desirous  he  might  be  for  acquiring  informa- 
tion, he  was  incapable  of  sustained  application. 
A  regular  course  of  study,  with  its  formal  pre- 
paration, would  have  frightened  him,  but  his 
freakish  intelligence  was  not  proof  against  the 
wonders  of  Creation  as  exhibited  in  the  shape  of 
stones  and  flowers.  These  were  the  allies  that 
Bernard  produced  to  assist  him  in  his  work.  An 
insect,  a  grain  of  sand,  a  bit  of  moss,  served  for 
a  text  for  long  talks  that  were  entertaining  while 
they  were  instructive. 

More  than  once,  in  those  days,  the  Countess 
was  attracted  by  the  unaccustomed  sound  of 
laughter  on  the  terrace,  where  her  son  had  been 
carried  for  the  benefit  of  the  sunlight.  She  took 
her  seat  there,  so  that  she  might  learn,  if  she 
could,  what  this  prescription  was  that  seemed  to 
cure  ennui.  "  Oh !  if  only  I  could  avail  myself 
of  it !  "  she  sighed. 

In  reckoning  Bernard  up,  the  sum  and  sub- 
stance of  her  judgement  was  that  he  was  far  too 
good-looking  to  be  a  botanist  and  sick  child's 
nurse,  and  the  expression  of  this  opinion  cost 
the  young  Frenchman  many  a  black  look  from 
M.  de  Fossombrone,  while  Dr.  Scharf  redoubled 
his  hypocritical  attentions.      The  latter  was  im- 


Expiation,  95 


placable  toward  Bernard's  success  ;  he  could  not 
even  pardon  the  change  in  Dimitri,  who,  he  said 
in  his  emphatic  manner,  seemed  to  have  acquired 
a  new  soul.  There  were  no  more  of  those  dis- 
mal wailings  and  fierce  bursts  of  rage  which  had 
formerly  terrified  all  the  household.  Scharf  had 
preached  and  philosophized  in  vain  to  reach  this 
end  ;  he  had  vainly  appealed  to  the  nobler  feel- 
ings, which  were  entirely  wanting  in  the  child,  to 
his  reason,  to  his  piety  ;  the  idea  never  occured 
to  him  of  utilizing  his  bad  passions,  as  Bernard 
did,  above  all,  bringing  into  play  Dimitri's  most 
glaring  defect,  an  unconquerable  pride,  and  by 
its  means  inculcating  resignation  under  the  guise 
of  stoicism. 

"  You  can  be  a  man  if  you  will  ;  it  depends 
entirely  upon  yourself,"  he  kept  repeating  to 
him  on  every  occasion.  And  this  quality  of 
manhood,  which  the  blundering  kindness  of  his 
attendants  had  led  him  to  believe  consisted  in 
nothing  but  physical  strength  and  activity,  had 
now,  since  he  knew  that  he  could  gain  it  in  its 
best  acceptation  in  spite  of  circumstances, 
became  the  object  of  the  little  invalid's  highest 
ambition.  Dimitri  loved  to  command  ;  Bernard 
allowed  him  to  do  so,  provided  he  first  learned 


g6  Expiation. 


to  command  himself,  and  Fedor  got  no  more 
beatings.  Alms-giving  was  associated  in  his 
mind  with  the  egotistical  pleasure  of  doing  as 
he  saw  grown  people  do,  and  as  his  new-born 
liberality  brought  around  all  the  ragged  little 
blackguards  of  Sestri,  who  had  formerly  fled 
before  him  in  terror,  the  consoling  illusion 
took  possession  of  him,  that  since  they  no  longer 
ran  away  from  him,  he  could  not  be  so  repul- 
sive as  he  had  been.  In  fact,  his  ugliness  did 
decrease  from  day  to  day,  in  proportion  as  the 
expression  of  hate  disappeared  from  his  features, 
just  as  his  physical  health  improved  as  his 
sensitive  nerves  became  calmer  through  his 
exercising  the  only  heroism  that  lay  in  his  power, 
that  which  consists  in  knowing  how  to  endure 
suffering. 

By  thus  withdrawing  his  attention  from  his 
own  personality  and  encouraging  an  interest  in 
things  foreign  to  himself,  Bernard  had  accom- 
plished a  great  work ;  he  infused  into  it  all  the 
enthusiasm,  the  passionate  devotion,  the  ardent 
desire  of  doing  good  that  in  years  gone  by  had 
impelled  him  toward  the  priesthood.  His 
influence  over  this  creature,  whom  it  might 
almost  be  said  he  had  created,  was  boundless^ 


Expiation,  97 


almost  magnetic  in  its  nature  ;  neither  did  it 
destroy  the  familiarity  which  had  sprung  up 
between  them  at  first  sight  through  the  inter- 
change of  new  impressions. 

"  You  must  call  me  Dima,  as  my  parents  do," 
the  boy  said  to  him  one  day  ;  **  strangers  never 
call  me  by  that  name." 

"Very  well,"  the  master  answered;  "I  will 
do  so,  provided  you  call  me  Bernard." 

It  was  the  love  and  confidence,  rather  than 
the  respect  of  this  poor  little  dwarfed  intellect, 
that  had  to  be  gained,  an  intellect  that  had 
hitherto  remained  a  sealed  book  for  every  one. 
The  progress  in  this  direction  for  a  long  time 
constituted  the  staple  topic  of  the  letters  to 
Madame  Desaubiers. 

"  Our  intimacy  has  become  closer  still,"  wrote 
Bernard,  "since  I  have  charged  myself  with 
many  cares  that  until  now  the  servants,  upon 
whom  the  little  tyrant  vents  his  spite,  have 
acquitted  themselves  perfunctorily.  Dima 
had  always  felt  very  keenly  the  repugnance 
that  his  infirmities  caused  the  people  who  took 
money  for  serving  him,  although  they  did  their 
best  to  conceal  this  feeling.  He  spoke  of  it  to  me: 

"'While  what  you  do    for   me,*  he    said,  *is 


98  Expiation, 


done  from  choice,  from  the  goodness  of  your 
heart,  so  that  I  am  willing  to  be  your  debtor 
for  it,  but  I  hated  the  others  for  being  strong, 
and  for  the  services  they  rendered  me.' 

"  He  insists  that  I  shall  promise  never  to  leave 
him.  His  great  argument  is  this :  *  Perhaps  I 
shall  not  live  very  long.' 

"  Last  night,  having  arisen  to  see  if  my  pupil 
was  asleep,  he  seized  my  hand  in  both  his  and 
gave  it  a  rapid  kiss.  It  was  the  first  caress  that  I 
had  received  from  him  ;  he  is  very  chary  of  be- 
stowing them,  and  I  wished  that  his  mother 
might  have  received  this  one,  for  it  would  have 
been  to  her  as  a  recompense  for  many  a  trouble ; 
however,  she  knows  nothing,  either  of  the  trouble 
or  the  reward." 

Sometimes,  also,  Bernard  in  his  letters,  of 
which  we  give  detached  fragments,  spoke  of  the 
increasing  kindness  manifested  by  M.  Volonzoff : 

"  I  want  to  make  him  understand  that  there 
are  services  that  cannot  be  paid  for  with  money, 
and  which  make  even  as  great  a  man  as  he  is  a 
debtor  to  a  poor  devil  like  me.  Speaking  serious- 
ly, I  would  like  to  have  him  give  me  credit  for 
the  honesty  of  my  intentions.  I  feel  that  I  have 
aroused  in  him  a  kind  of  sympathetic  curiosity. 


Expiation.  99 


"  Dima  has  doubtless  told  him  that  I  am  doing 
some  work  for  my  own  account,  and  that  while  I 
watch  over  him  at  night  I  occupy  my  time  in 
writing,  and  the  Count  endeavors  to  discover 
what  my  plans  are  for  the  future  and  see  if  he 
cannot  forward  them.  He  seems  to  be  constantly 
saying  :  'Let  me  be  of  assistance  to  you.'  How- 
ever, when  the  conversation  turns  upon  myself 
and  my  affairs,  I  always  manage  to  bring  it  back 
to  some  topic  of  general  interest,  which  I  treat 
with  the  greatest  freedom,  thereby,  perhaps,  run- 
ning the  risk  of  offending  the  autocrat.  But  no, 
to  have  the  courage  of  one's  opinions  seems  to 
please  him,  though  he  is  incapable  of  it  himself. 
I  suppose  that,  like  most  Russians  of  high  rank, 
he  has  never  had  any  great  incentive  to  activity 
beyond  his  fortune  and  his  ambition  ;  when  dis- 
cussing general  interests  he  is  cold  and  unimpas- 
sioned,  although  he  can  talk  admirably  upon 
such  subjects,  as  well  as  on  all  others.  In  the 
conversation  of  others,  he  appreciates  very  high- 
ly candor,  moral  independence,  and  above  all 
what  he  calls  originality,  being  entirely  disgusted 
with  that  spirit  of  imitation  which  forms  the 
mortal  evil  of  his  country. 

**  M.  Scharfs  judgement  of  him  was  based  on 


loo  Expiation, 


their  reciprocal  relations.  The  Count  detests 
any  webby  display  of  science,  and  more  than 
anything  else  he  detests  the  everlasting  harangues 
on  German  unity  that  the  Doctor  always  indulges 
in  as  soon  as  the  conversation  turns  on  politics  ; 
none  the  less  has  he  acquired  a  fund  of  informa- 
tion by  his  rapid  and  cursory  reading ;  there 
is  no  subject  on  which  he  is  entirely  ignorant. 
Unfortunately,  the  information  that  he  has  ac- 
quired, has  failed  to  penetrate  his  conscience  and 
his  heart,  and  so  he  is  destitute  of  that  faith  with- 
out which  our  actions  are  of  no  avail. 

"  I  notice  many  contrasts  between  his  theo- 
ries and  his  actions,  so  that  it  seems  to  me  that 
this  sceptic  might  be  deluded  by  a  designing 
person. 

"  His  preference  for  me  will  cause  many  to  envy 
me,  and  will  likely  cause  me  some  enemies.  He 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  with  one  of  those 
sighs  that  escape  him  whenever  he  speaks  of  what 
Dima  might  have  been  if  he  had  been  strong  : 

"  *  I  could  have  wished  for  no  other  guide  than 
you  for  the  future  Count  Volonzoff ;  my  desire 
would  have  been  that  he  might  have  been  like 
you  in  every  respect.' 

"  This  was  after  a  discussion  in  which  I  feared 


Expiation,  loi 


that  I  had  exceeded  the  bounds  of  the  defer- 
ence that  was  his  due.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
flattering  is  the  distinction  between  the  exquisite 
politeness  that  he  uses  in  his  intercourse  with 
every  one,  and  the  personal  interest  that  he 
evinces  for  me. 

"  *  My  father  loves  you,'  Diraa  often  says   to 
me,  with  an  air  of  pleasure." 


"You  ask  me  how  I  stand  with  the  other 
inhabitants  of  the  villa.  The  Countess  treats 
me  with  the  indifference  of  a  finished  coquette, 
as  she  does  every  one  else  unless  she  desires 
to  be  complimented  on  her  beauty.  When  she 
is  getting  up  proverbs  and  charades,  she  comes 
to  me  with  an  appeal  to  my  intelligence  ; 
when  she  contemplates  adding  to  her  collec- 
tions some  of  those  apocryphal  objects  that 
the  Italian  curiosity  venders  designate  as  Floren- 
tine metal-work,  old  Venetian  glass,  or  Lucca 
della  Robbia  Faience,  the  appeal  is  made  to  my 
good  taste.  She  dotes  on  bric-a-brac.  Some- 
times, too,  whether  I  will  or  no,  she  enlists 
me  to  take  part  in  her  game  of  croquet,  her 
favorite  out-door  pastime,  and  this  is  the  only 


102  Expiation. 


opportunity  we  ever  have  of  being  together  in 
the  morning.  Generally  speaking,  I  see  but 
very  little  of  her ;  she  runs  away  on  excursions 
whenever  and  wherever  the  fancy  seizes  her. 
Her  last  one  was  to  Monaco,  and  was  made  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  The  diligence  chanced 
to  pass;  she  jumped  in,  laughing,  and  devoted 
three  of  her  precious  days  to  breaking  the  bank 
down  there  ;  it  seems,  however,  that  an  actress 
from  Paris  snatched  away  the  laurels  from  her 
in  this  exploit.  She  came  back  with  empty 
pockets,  but  with  a  fine  collection  of  rather 
doubtful  anecdotes,  which  she  tells  very  droUy, 
to  the  delectation  of  her  little  court,  which  is 
not  distinguished  for  elegance  of  manners  ot 
purity  of  taste.  These  provincial  Italians  are 
wanting  in  tact,  and  the  Russians  who  stop 
here  to  pay  their  respects  to  their  handsome 
country-woman  appear  to  be  no  better  thaii 
they,  except  that  they  maintain  a  certain  affec- 
tation ;  their  self-conceit  is  none  the  less  repul- 
sive for  being  slightly  veiled.  It  should  be  said 
that  Countess  Annette  keeps  the  track  open  for 
H^  the  crowd  of  admirers,  among  whom  M.  de  Fos- 
sombrone,  to  use  the  turf  slang  which  prevails 
here,  is  a  good  first.     Such  conduct  in  a  country 


Expiation,  103 


less  indulgent  than  this,  would  give  rise  to 
scandal,  a.nd  another  husband  than  the  Count 
would  not  endure  it  with  impunity,  but  there 
are  men  whom  nothing  can  make  ridiculous. 
M.  de  Volonzoff  is  such  a  man.  He  apparently 
considers  that  his  honor  is  not  endangered  and 
passes  over  his  wife's  freaks  without  either 
approving  or  condemning  them.  I  suspect  that  in 
her  heart  this  attitude  of  his  is  displeasing  to  her. 

"While  recently  discussing  with  me  the  fre- 
quenters of  her  drawing-room,  she  said, 'Prin- 
cess K.  is  a  happy  woman.' 

"  I  enquired  what  this  enviable  felicity  of  Ma- 
dame K.'s  could  consist  in,  a  woman  with 
blanched  features,  a  wit  so  thick  that  it  can 
be  aroused  only  by  the  interest  of  the  gaming 
table,  and  an  apoplectic  old  husband,  a  regular 
wild  boar  in  uniform.  The  uniform,  it  is  true, 
was  left  behind  at  St.  Petersburg,  but  the  stiff- 
ness of  his  corpulent  form  still  gives  evidence 
of  the  tightly  buckled  sword  belt.  I  remera* 
bered  that  the  General  was  said  to  place  his 
servants  and  his  wife  on  an  equal  footing  by  the 
brutality  with  which  he  treated  them. 

"  *  No  doubt  that  he  is  repulsive  and  ridicu- 
lous,' she  answered,  '  but  that  is  of  small  conse- 


I04  Expiation, 


quence  ;  perhaps  he  beats  her,  but  he  loves  her, 
or  anyway  he  did  love  her  at  one  time.  Just 
think ;  she  was  a  widow  and  had  no  settled  in- 
tention of  marrying.  He  came  to  her  with  a 
pistol  in  his  hand  and  swore  that  he  would  blow 
his  brains  out,  unless  she  gave  a  favorable  an- 
swer to  his  suit.' 

" '  It  is  very  much  to  be  deplored  by  us,  who 
have  to  receive  his  visits,  that  she  did  not  let 
him  carry  out  his  intention,'  said  the  Count,  who 
was  standing  near.  He  cannot  endure  to  be 
compared  with  this  hair-brained  hero.  The  at- 
titude that  he  assumes  toward  the  mad  scenes 
that  take  place  at  the  villa  is  that  of  a  person 
who  has  doggedly  resigned  himself  to  see  to  the 
end  a  bad  piece  played  by  bad  actors.  Does  it 
cause  him  suffering  ?  I  can't  help  thinking  that 
it  does,  for  the  retirement  to  which  he  has  con- 
demned himself  in  the  prime  of  life  is  not  com- 
pensated by  the  repose  of  his  own  fireside,  or 
rather  there  is  nothing  here  that  is  at  all  like 
family  life,  with  its  community  of  joys  and  griefs; 
that  this  is  so  is  the  unpardonable  fault  of  this 
worldly  little  actress,  who  is  neither  wife  nor 
mother." 


Expiation.  105 


"I  am  more  than  ever  inclined  to  think  that 
Scharf  is  in  love,  although  he  studiously  conceals 
his  sentiments  under  a  breastplate  of  German 
impenetrability  which  he  prides  himself  upon. 

"  *  See  how  the  moths  scorch  their  wings  in 
the  lamplight,'  "  said  he,  retreating  to  his  dark 
corner,  like  a  bird  of  night. 

"  It  is  true  that  the  Countess  never  failed  to 
call  him  forth  again  with  some  of  those  charm- 
ing compliments  which  she  lavishes  on  every- 
body. His  response  shows  that  he  mistrusts  her, 
but  I  have  caught  his  blue  eyes  sending  out 
singularly  ardent  glances,  and  his  mouth,  the 
corners  of  which  are  drawn  closely  by  his  habit 
of  self-repression,  indicates  as  much  sensuality 
as  it  does  hardness.  I  suspect  that  he  places 
great  value  upon  his  pedantic  authority,  and  that 
his  ideas  of  virtue  coincide  with  those  that  some 
philosopher  held  upon  knowledge,  that  he  would 
have  none  of  it  unless  he  could  use  it  to  make  a 
display  with  ;  it  is  of  assistance  to  him  in  his 
calling  and  he  makes  skilful  use  of  it.  Scharf 
at  the  same  time  despises,  fears,  and  courts  Ma- 
dame Volonzoff,  but  what  characterizes  him  be- 
yond all  else  is  his  prudence  ;  he  wants  to  retain 
a  position  that  pays  him  well,  and  would  not  com- 


io6  Expiation, 


promise  his  prospects  for  a  mere  trifle.  It  is  said 
that  the  Countess'  favors  do  not  exceed  the 
bounds  of  a  mild  flirtation." 


"  I  suppose  that  as  Rose  can  only  work  on  the 
portrait  which  she  promised  me  at  stray  mo- 
ments, and  as  she  has  less  and  less  leisure  time, 
I  shall  have  to  wait  a  long  time  for  it.  Dear, 
good  child  !  I  admire  and  respect  her  more  and 
more  when  I  think  how  usefully  she  fills  up  her 
life,  and  compare  her  course  with  that  of  others, 
who  squander  what  little  intellect  they  have  in  a 
fruitless  pursuit  of  pleasure.  Tell  her,  I  beg  you, 
how  lonely  I  feel,  so  far  away  from  her." 


Expiation.  107 


VI. 


ERNARD'S  letters  continued  in  this 
strain  up  to  the  middle  of  January, 
when  all  at  once  they  began  to  be 
shorter  and  more  infrequent.  This  change,  it  is 
to  be  observed,  coincided  with  the  still  greater 
change  which  at  this  time  occurred  in  the  habits 
of  Countess  Annette. 

She  had  suddenly  pulled  up  in  her  headlong 
pursuit  of  pleasure,  and  no  one  could  assign  a 
reason  for  her  conduct.  She  said  that  the  coun- 
try was  uncongenial  to  her,  that  hunting,  the 
only  pleasure  possible  in  the  wintry  days,  was 
out  of  the  question,  that  it  was  colder  than  in 
Russia,  and  she  was  no  longer  to  be  seen  on 
horseback  or  driving  her  pony  chaise  on  the 
Genoa  road.  Taking  advantage  of  a  too  ardent 
demonstration  on  the  part  of  M.  de  Fossombronc 
she  requested  him,  with  unwonted  severity,  to 


io8  Expiation. 


make  his  visits  less  frequent,  and  almost  ceased 
altogether  to  receive  him.  A  long  journey  which 
the  Count  was  compelled  to  take  on  urgent  busi- 
ness served  her  as  a  pretext  for  this,  although 
the  presence  or  the  absence  of  her  husband  had 
never  until  now  had  much  to  do  with  influencing 
her  sayings  and  doings.  She  told  Bernard  that 
the  fact  was  that  she  was  horribly  weary  of  her 
stupid  surroundings ;  she  was  eaten  up  with 
innui^  and  wanted  to  try  some  new  method  of 
curing  it  ;  could  he  not  lend  her  some  books, 
and  even  give  her  a  few  lessons  in  French  when 
he  had  nothing  better  to  do  ?  She  ridiculed  her 
St.  Petersburg  jargon,  and  made  excuses  for  her 
accent,  as  if  those  soft,  drawling  inflections  had 
not  contributed  one  of  her  attractions.  Bernard 
shied  at  the  mention  of  the  lessons,  but  he  could 
not  well  refuse  to  lend  the  books,  although  he 
took  care  to  select  the  driest  and  heaviest  so  that 
she  might  the  more  quickly  tire  of  her  whim. 
Unluckily  the  result  was  not  as  he  wished  ;  she 
read  them,  or  at  any  rate,  guessed  at  their  con- 
tents sufficiently  to  be  able  to  talk  about  them 
and  keep  him  longer  than  was  agreeable  to  him 
at  the  side  of  her  little  embroidery  frame,  whose 
only  use  was  to  allow  a  daintily  shod  little  foot 


Expiation,  109 


to  peep  out  from  beneath  her  skirt,  and  the  slen- 
der hand  which  held  the  needle  to  remain  poised 
in  an  attitude  to  compel  admiration.  While  his 
eye  was  thus  riveted  on  the  flashing  of  her  rings 
and  the  movements  of  her  slipper,  he  was  aston- 
ished to  find  that  this  woman,  whom  he  had  set 
down  as  a  nonentity  and  absolutely  frivolous, 
doubtless  because  she  strictly  obeyed  that  law  of 
politeness  which  decrees  that  no  one  shall  seem 
to  know  more  than  his  guests,  had  the  capacity 
of  thinking,  listening  and  talking.  She  had  a 
smattering  of  instruction,  although  what  she  had 
acquired  lacked  arrangement  in  her  mind,  and  a 
seeming  resolve  to  divest  herself  of  all  common 
sense,  impelled  her  frequently  to  look  on  serious 
things  under  a  comic  aspect  and  to  treat  trifles 
with  gravity. 

It  would  have  been  diflicult  to  say  how  much 
of  this  was  natural  with  her  and  how  much  the 
effect  of  that  assimilation,  which  comes  so  easy 
to  women,  and  especially  to  women  of  her 
country  ;  the  light  woof,  however,  of  which  she 
threw  the  threads  so  dexterously,  was  shaded 
with  touches  of  natural  feeling,  with  sprightliness, 
even  sometimes  with  melancholy.  What  had  at 
first  been  a  bore  to  Bernard,  imperceptibly  be- 


no  Expiation, 


came  a  pleasure  ;  then  an  absolute  necessity. 
He  felt  impatient  for  the  time  to  come  when  she 
should  curl  herself  up  in  her  easy  chair  as  grace- 
fully as  a  kitten,  and  begin  to  give  him  her  im- 
pressions and  ask  his  explanations  on  what  she 
had  been  reading,  always  giving  the  preference 
to  the  subject  of  love,  some  trace  of  which  her 
quick  analysis  would  not  have  failed  to  discover 
in  solution  in  the  dullness  of  sermons. 

To  be  a  good  talker  is  not  a  German  accom- 
plishment. Scharf  did  not  excel  in  this  line, 
and  accordingly  held  it  in  light  esteem.  He  was 
too  heavy  to  rise  on  the  wings  of  wit,  and  to 
touch  lightly  a  hundred  subjects  in  the  course  of  a 
half-hour's  talk  was  something  quite  beyond  him. 

As  he  could  not  shine,  he  was  accustomed  to 
beat  a  retreat  and  await  the  Countess'  summons, 
when  she  stood  in  need  of  a  cavalier  to  attend 
her  in  her  walks.  But  it  was  soon  observable 
that  she  began  to  shorten  her  walks  with  the 
Doctor,  pretending  either  that  she  was  tired  or 
that  the  weather  was  bad,  while  the  clearness  of 
the  sky  and  her  sudden  desire  for  exercise, 
seemed  to  smile  on  the  pedestrian  excursions 
which  this  whimsical  young  woman  indulged  in 
in    company  with  Bernard.     One  day  she  had 


Expiation,  m 


taken  his  arm  to  ascend  with  her  light,  sure  step 
the  rocky  heights  that  overlook  the  sea  : 

"You  are  an  author,"  said  she;  "now  don't 
tell  me  you  are  not.  For  two  weeks  I  have  shown 
a  firmness  that  I  never  thought  was  in  me  by 
receiving  those  great  big  books  that  you  gave 
me.  Do  you  know  why  I  did  it  ?  It  was  that  I 
might  be  able  to  get  hold  of  yours." 

"  I  have  never  written  a  book,"  said  Bernard, 
blushing. 

**0h!  it  may  not  be  printed;  perhaps  it  is 
not  finished.  That  makes  no  difference.  You 
must  let  me  see  a  few  leaves  of  it,  even  if  nothing 
more  than  a  poor  little  sonnet.  Unless,"  she  said, 
suddenly  becoming  serious,  "  you  don't  consider 
me  worthy  of  such  confidence,  and  you  are  one 
of  those  people  who,  having  once  formed  a  poor 
opinion  of  any  one,  can  never  change  it." 

"  It  would  be  presumptuous  in  me,"  replied 
the  young  man,  mucli  embarrassed,  "  to  form  an 
opinion  upon  you,  Madame." 

"  There  is  no  dispute  that  you  are  well-bred  ; 
even  if  you  were  not,  you  could  not  have  given 
me  any  other  answer.  But  I  can  tell  the  differ- 
ence between  politeness  and  sincerity.  At  the 
very  beginning  I  noticed   that  you  had  taken  a 


112  Expiation. 


dislike  to  me,  or  rather,  if  you  prefer  to  have  it 
expressed  that  way,  that  I  shocked  your  ideas 
of  respectability." 

"  Admitting  such  an  impossibility  to  be  a  fact, 
you  surely  would  never  have  condescended  to 
notice  it." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  sir  ;  I  only  disregard  the 
hostility  of  bad  people  and  the  recriminations  of 
the  foolish.  You  are  not  to  be  counted  as  be- 
longing to  either  camp,  and  I  should  feel  flattered 
if  you  would  consent  to  take  your  place  among 
my  friends.  If  it  is  not  asking  too  much,  give 
me  the  proof  of  reconciliation — or  of  your 
confidence,  since  you  say  there  is  no  reconcilia- 
tion necessary — and  grant  me  the  favor  that  I 
ask  for." 

Bernard  bowed.  During  the  whole  of  the 
walk  that  they  had  taken  together,  she  had  been 
adroitly  urging  him  on  to  confidences,  to  which 
he  had  replied  very  guardedly;  she  doubtless 
hoped  to  learn  more  from  his  pen  than  she  could 
from  his  lips  ;  he  was  provoked  rather  than  flat- 
tered, by  this  idle  curiosity  that  took  him  for  its 
object.  However,  upon  their  return  that  same 
evening,  he  yielded  to  her  wish  without  hesita- 
tion, though  not  without  repugnance.     He  ex- 


Expiation,  115 


perienced  a  secret  feeling  of  enjoyment  at  the 
disappointment  which  the  Countess  would  meet 
with ;  the  pages  where  she  expected  to  find  son- 
nets inspired  by  her  beautiful  eyes,  or  revelations 
which  would  satisfy  her  curiosity  in  regard  to  his 
past  life,  were  filled  with  sketches  of  character, 
very  frank  and  unreserved,  no  doubt,  but  inter^ 
esting  only  from  a  psychological  point  of  view. 
There  were  bits  of  reflection  and  scattered  frag- 
ments, like  the  sketches  that  a  painter  uses  in 
preparing  to  paint  his  great  picture.  It  was  the 
introduction  of  a  solitary,  thoughtful  mind,  at 
once  elevated  and  severe,  turned  upon  itself  and 
seeking  its  sustenance  in  regions  quite  beyond  the 
ken  of  Countess  Annette.  There  was  material 
there  for  more  than  one  book,  but  as  yet  unco- 
ordinated and  wanting  in  dramatic  movement 
and  the  indispensible  qualities  of  shape  and  sym- 
metry. To  reduce  the  interest  to  the  lowest 
point,  Bernard  cut  out  all  the  pages  where  love 
was  mentioned  in  any  shape  ;  the  image  of  Rose 
was  veiled  with  religious  delicacy.  As  he  placed 
his  mutilated  journal  on  Countess  Annette's 
little  table,  among  the  bon-bons,  flowers  and 
thousand  knick-knacks  that  she  liked  to  see 
about    her,    the    young    man    thought    of    de 


1 14  Expiation, 


Mosset's  parrot,  who  received  " a  bean 

displayed  in  tissue  paper,  like  a  bon-bon  made." 

At  the  first  glance  she  recognized  the  manu- 
script among  the  other  books  and  seized  it  as  if 
it  had  been  her  prey,  crying,  "  You  may  keep  the 
rest."  Then  Bernard  felt  himself  trembling  a 
little,  as  if  this  feminine  criticism  was  of  the 
slightest  importance  in  the  world  to  him.  He 
excused  himself  to  himself  for  his  ridiculous 
emotion  by  saying  that  she  was  merely  the  first 
of  that  great  public  with  which  he  was  to  have 
relations. 

Annette,  however,  proffered  no  opinion,  neither 
was  she  lavish  with  that  hyperbole  of  admiration 
which  is  common  among  the  Russians,  and  which 
would  be  too  much  even  for  an  author's  vanity. 
Several  days  passed  during  which  she  spoke  no 
word ;  at  last,  one  evening,  he  came  upon  her  in 
the  little  nook  which  she  had  constructed  with 
screens  for  her  own  private  retreat  at  the  far  end 
of  the  great  drawing-room.  His  manuscript  was 
on  her  knee,  and  she  seemed  to  be  meditating. 
At  his  approach,  she  slowly  raised  her  eyes,  suf- 
fused with  tears  ;  without  wiping  them  away,  she 
said,  "  See  what  you  have  done !  '* 

Before  Bernard,  taken  by  surprise  and  greatly 


Expiation.  115 


moved  by  this  unexpected  and  apparently  in- 
voluntary tribute,  could  find  a  word  in  reply,  she 
continued  : 

"  Take  that  chair.  I  do  not  intend  to  say 
anything  about  your  talent ;  I  don't  even  know 
if  you  have  any,  and  my  opinion  would  carry  no 
weight  with  it.  What  impressed  me,  let  me  tell 
you  to  my  mortification,  was  that  I  did  not  think 
that  there  existed  in  all  the  world  such  a  noble 
character  as  I  met  with  in  your  book.  Do  not 
laugh.  I  asked  myself  the  question,  what  would 
become  of  this  soul  in  this  world  that  I  know 
so  well,  where  the  best  and  noblest  go  to  ruin  ; 
into  whose  hands  it  would  fall,  for  sooner  or 
later  it  will  find  some  one  to  claim  it.  It  always 
ends  that  way  ;  we  love,  and  then  our  virtues 
are  forgotten,  and  our  faults,  perhaps,  redeemed. 
To  what  purpose  do  we  live,  if  not  for  this  ?  " 
•  Bernard  hardly  knew  what  to  think.  Annette 
seemed  to  pay  no  attention  to  him  ;  she  sat 
watching  the  fire. 

"  I  could  write  a  book,"  she  said,  "  if  I  could 
only  hold  a  pen,  and  a  curious  one  it  would  be. 
I  thought  of  it  as  I  was  reading  yours.  What  a 
contrast  there  would  be  between  yours  and  mine! 
On  the  one  hand  goodness,  intelligence,  strong 


ii6  Expiation, 


principles  and  a  youth  devoted  to  religion  and 
study  ;  on  the  other,  a  pandemonium  that  you 
cannot  form  an  idea  of,  created  by  myself  and 
whose  torments  I  am  still  condemned  to  suffer." 

**It's  a  very  merry  pandemonium,  anyhow," 
Bernard  could  not  refrain  from  interjecting. 

She  glanced  at  him  reproachfully  and  then 
began  to  laugh  : 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  true  that  the  people  here  are  fond 
of  amusement,  and  I,  too,  like  pleasure.  Count- 
ess Annette,  the  little  fool,  only  needs  a  few  toys 
and  some  rags  to  make  her  happy,  so  that  we 
shall  have  to  find  a  more  interesting  heroine 
for  the  novel  or  the  drama  that  is  to  be  evolved 
from  the  inspiration  of  your  Epic  here"  — she 
passed  without  transition  from  enthusiasm  to 
irony —  "  which  was  not  written  for  me,  it  is 
true  ;  but  then  I  like  everything  that  is  new  and 
out  of  the  common.  To  return  to  our  heroine; 
she  was  a  friend  of  mine,  and  as  I  do  not  give 
her  name,  I  shall  not  be  indiscreet  if  I  tell  you 
her  story.  When,  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
I  have  thought  of  one  thing  for  a  whole  hour, 
it  would  be  a  sin  and  a  shame  to  let  my  re- 
flections and  my  recollections  fade  away  with- 
out imparting   them  to  any  one.      Perhaps  you 


Expiation,  117 


will  be  able  to  utilize  them  some  time  if  you 
continue  your  analysis  of  the  human  heart, 
though  I  warn  you  that  they  will  make  a  less 
innocent  book  than  that  little  blue  covered  one 
of  yours." 

Bernard  was  not  very  anxious  to  hear  the 
Countess'  story,  but  he  was  there,  shut  in  by 
the  silken  leaves  of  the  screen  ;  moreover  an 
unaccountable  languor  prevented  him  from  mov- 
ing away  from  the  presence  of  the  beautiful 
silky  hair,  the  rosy  hand,  the  undulating,  grace- 
ful form  which  bent  toward  him  and  almost 
touched  him  at  every  moment.  The  expressive 
modulations  of  her  voice  came  to  him  as  one 
in  a  dream. 

"  The  childhood  of  my  friend,  whom  we  will 
call  Sacha,  if  you  will,  was  passed  far  away  from 
great  cities,  and  as  she  became  old  enough  to 
assume  the  burthen  of  responsibility,  she  became 
absolute  mistress  of  a  lordly  residence,  whose 
geographical  position  it  is  needless  that  I  should 
precisely  mention.  The  only  remaining  mem- 
ber of  her  family  was  a  grandfather,  under  the 
formative  influence  of  whose  example  she  had 
grown  up  to  be  a  little  tyrant.  Harsh  and 
severe   with    every    one   besides,    he    was    the 


ii8  Expiation, 


obedient  slave  of  this  slender  child,  whom  he 
feared  to  crush  with  his  great  hands  every  time 
that  he  gave  her  a  caress,  for  he  was  a  giant,  a 
colossus.  Sacha  was  the  only  one  who  dared  to 
take  the  brandy  bottle  away  from  him  after  din- 
ner. When  younger  he  had  been  a  great  hunter 
and  a  great  drinker,  but  now  that  by  reason  of  his 
corpulence  he  could  no  longer  mount  his  horse, 
or  hardly  even  leave  his  easy-chair,  he  indem- 
nified himself  by  drinking  double  rations.  A 
priest  of  the  Greek  Church,  who  was  one  of  the 
household,  kept  him  company  in  these  bouts 
and  taught  little  Sacha  to  say  her  prayers  before 
the  holy  images ;  his  instruction  supplemented 
that  of  the  nurses  who  had  taken  care  of  her 
from  her  infancy,  fine-looking  creatures  gen- 
erally, recruited  by  the  old  master  from  among 
his  peasantry.  In  this  rustic  harem  were  story- 
tellers who  would  not  have  cast  discredit  on 
those  of  the  Arabian  Nights  ;  from  them  my 
friend  acquired  all  the  popular  legends  and 
superstitions,  forming  them  into  a  kind  of 
special  and  occult  religion,  in  which  the  horo- 
scope played  an  important  part. 

"  Before  the  little  one  was  ten  years  old,  she 
was    constantly  running  over  the  cards  in  her 


Expiation,  119 


search  for  that  emperor,  beautiful  as  the  day, 
whom  the  women  had  promised  her  for  a  hus- 
band. The  Gypsies,  who  sometimes  came  and 
lighted  their  fires  and  put  up  their  tents  in  the 
neighborhood,  inspired  Sacha  with  a  taste  for 
music.  On  one  occasion  she  did  not  stop  at 
singing  the  songs  of  the  Bohemians.  Weary  with 
her  long  waiting  for  the  prince  who  was  to  come 
and  carry  her  off,  a  fierce  desire  for  liberty  seized 
her,  and  she  determined  to  follow  the  wandering 
band  out  on  the  steppe.  The  vagabond  was 
caught  and  chained  up,  or  in  other  words,  an 
English  governess  was  secured  to  direct  her  edu- 
cation. You  can't  imagine  what  a  sorry  figure 
the  poor  English  girl  cut  at  the  coarse  table,  sur- 
rounded by  a  crew  of  hangers-on,  who,  attracted 
from  the  neighboring  villages  by  the  enticing 
odor  of  abundant  victual  (may  kind  heaven 
preserve  you  from  an  acquaintance  with  our 
country  hashes  and  meat  pies  !),  came  and  set- 
tled down  in  swarms  like  flies,  guzzling,  drinking 
and  exhaling  their  sooty  odors,  until  they  fell  flat 
upon  the  ground. 

"  Sacha  presided  at  these  orgies,  and  now  and 
then  condescended  to  dance,  like  Salome  before 
Herod,  when  the  dessert  was  on  the  table.     She 


Expiation. 


demanded  no  one's  head  as  the  reward  of  her  at- 
tractions, but  admiration  was  a  necessity  to  her ; 
she  had  to  have  it,  no  matter  from  what  quarter 
it  came.  The  pleasing  incense,  no  matter  how 
coarsely  mingled  with  tobacco  smoke,  went  to  her 
head  and  intoxicated  her,  but  she  did  not  allow 
this  effect  to  appear ;  on  the  contrary,  she  main- 
tained the  disdainful  indifference  of  a  queen.  The 
English  governess  was  so  outraged  by  these  strange 
proceedings  that  she  handed  in  her  resignation,  a 
step  which  pleased  everybody,  for  her  red  nose 
and  her  puritanic  severity  of  contour  had  made 
her  no  friends  in  the  house.  She  was  succeeded 
by  a  Parisian  ;  a  kind  of  milliner,  a  wide-awake 
woman  of  ambitious  disposition,  who  was  so  little 
careful  to  observe  the  retiring  manners  which 
the  village  beauties,  it  is  due  to  them  to  say,  had 
always  maintained  in  the  old  barracks,  that  it  be- 
came necessary  to  discharge  her.  Her  abbre- 
viated stay,  however,  was  not  entirely  without  re- 
sults. It  put  Sacha  on  the  track  of  the  French 
eighteenth  century  romances,  with  which  one  of 
her  great  uncles,  a  disciple  of  Jean  Jacques  Rous- 
seau and  confidential  officer  of  the  Empress  Cath- 
erine, had  enriched  the  shelves  of  their  other- 
wise scanty  library. 


Expiation.  121 


"  Then  there  came  a  string  of  poor  girls  from 
the  different  nations  of  Europe,  and  each  one 
contributed  her  stone  to  that  composite  structure 
that  was  entitled  Sacha's  education.  She  learned 
to  speak  several  languages,  but  could  not  spell 
her  own  correctly. 

"  She  had  reached  her  fifteenth  year,  when  her 
grandfather  died  in  a  fit  of  rage,  brought  on  by 
the  efforts  of  one  of  his  sisters,  while  on  a  visit 
to  him  from  St.  Petersburg,  to  introduce  modern 
innovations  upon  his  estate.  After  the  funeral 
ceremonies,  this  lady  took  charge  of  the  orphan 
and  carried  her  away  with  her. 

"  At  St.  Petersburg  there  was  a  change,  but  it 
was  not  for  the  better  A  clique  of  fashionable 
old  women  took  the  little  savage  in  hand  and  at- 
tempted to  tame  her.  All  the  artifices  of  coquetry 
were  regularly  instilled  into  her  mind  as  so  many 
principles  to  be  observed.  The  Lord  knows  how 
little  need  she  had  of  instruction  of  this  kind  ! 
The  most  risky  questions  were  discussed  in  her 
presence  with  the  cold  cynicism  that  is  bom  of 
experience.  All  the  gossip,  all  the  scandal,  all 
the  intrigues  of  fashionable  life  in  the  great  city, 
were  commented  on  in  her  hearing.  She  was 
initiated  into  that  strategy  of  love  which  has  for 


12  2  Expiation. 


its  beginning  the  conquest  of  a  husband,  she  was 
taught  the  use  of  rouge,  she  was  supplied  a  whole 
arsenal  of  fictitious  sentiment,  she  was  taught  to 
hatch  plots,  to  set  traps,  to  calculate  effects,  to 
make  herself  mistress  of  the  situation,  and,  above 
all,  to  lie  without  blushing. 

"  There  is  a  picture  which  represents  a  young 
witch  being  washed  and  combed  for  the  Sabbath 
by  the  older  hags,  a  fearful  crew  of  veterans  in 
the  devilish  art.  It  always  brought  to  my  mind 
Sacha's  initiation  into  polite  society. 

"  As  soon  as  the  time  of  mourning  had  expired 
she  was  introduced  to  society  by  the  relative 
who  had  assumed  charge  of  her,  an  old  dowager, 
whose  snow-white  hair  had  been  dyed  yellow, 
who  preserved  the  manners  of  a  frisky  young 
matron,  and  every  evening  repaired  her  ruins  so 
as  to  exhibit  them  in  half  a  dozen  drawing-rooms 
in  succession.  She  was  always  attended  by  an 
intrepid  band  of  courtiers,  whose  number  was 
augmented  to  a  legion  when  the  dazzling  Sacha 
appeared  at  her  side.  Sacha  created  a  sensation 
at  once  ;  mothers  of  marriageable  daughters 
showed  their  envy  when  they  spoke  of  her,  and 
from  the  very  day  of  her  presentation  at  court, 
she  became  the  target  for    feminine  calumny; 


Expiation.  1 23 


which  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  greatest  triumph  that 
a  woman  can  achieve.  It  was  told  in  the  news- 
papers how  she  could  manage  an  unbroken  horse 
with  the  skill  of  the  Cossack  amazons,  and  how 
she  skated  with  the  grace  and  vigor  of  a  man. 
Every  head  was  turned  by  the  remnant  of  uncul- 
tivated barbarism  which  Sacha  had  been  allowed 
to  preserve,  in  order  to  place  the  seal  of  individu- 
ality upon  her  newly  acquired  notoriety.  The 
heaviest  swells  among  the  young  men,  in  the 
most  gorgeous  of  uniforms,  and  with  the  most  re- 
sounding titles,  threw  themselves  at  her  feet,  but 
Sacha  was  quick  to  see  the  ridiculous  side  of 
everything,  and  was  much  addicted  to  caricature; 
attentions  which  would  have  raised  other  young 
girls  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  felicity  only  made 
her  laugh.  The  suitors  who  were  brought  be- 
fore her  for  her  approval  were  certainly  splendid 
dancers  and  very  nice  to  flirt  with,  but  when  it 
came  to  choosing  a  husband,  she  wanted  a  man^ 
one  who  would  command  her  and  whom  she 
must  respect  and  obey,  not  a  dude  nor  a  dandy» 
These  ideas  were  original  and  eccentric,  but  they 
were  Sacha's  own.  No  one  knew  that  she  held 
them,  no  one  would  have  thought  of  advising  her 
in  this  direction,  even  when  she  came  to  make 


1 24  Expiation, 


her  choice,  which,  moreover,  caused  surprise  to 
no  one.  It  was  quite  natural  that  she  should  se- 
lect a  husband  much  older  than  herself,  since  the 
sacrifice  was  fully  counterbalanced  by  his  high 
rank  and  eminent  position  at  court.  Every  one 
thought  that  she  had  married  for  ambition,  and 
congratulated  her  accordingly,  while  her  motives 
were  altogether  the  opposite.  Even  her  husband 
failed  to  do  her  justice.  It  flattered  his  vanity 
to  have  carried  off  the  young  and  beautiful  rich 
heiress,  the  crowning  ornament  of  the  season, 
over  the  heads  of  his  younger  rivals  ;  it  was  a  su- 
preme success,  a  glorious  event  in  hi's  career. 
He  never  required  from  his  wife  qualities  that  he 
had  never  expected  to  find  in  her,  but  he  applied 
himself  resolutely  to  satisfy  every  desire  of  her 
worldly  imagination.  To  change  her  into  a  rea- 
sonable, reasoning  woman  would  have  seemed  to 
him  a  miracle  that  he  had  not  sufficient  presump- 
tion to  undertake,  and  still  I  declare  to  you  that 
the  miracle  was  not  impossible.  If  he  could  have 
but  thought  so,  if  he  had  cared  to  make  the  experi- 
ment, Sacha  would  have  been  whatever  he  cared 
to  make  her.  But  he  had  not  married  for  the  sake 
of  educating  a  little  girl,  and  so  Sacha  remained 
what  she  had  always  been  ;  she  remembered  the 


Expiation.  125 


early  lessons  in  evil  that  she  had  received,  and 
practiced  them. 

"  Sensation  must  be  deadened  by  some  means 
or  other,  and  as  real  passion  was  wanting,  she 
needed  the  counterfeit  article  by  which  she  saw 
herself  surrounded  on  every  side.  What  can  I 
say  ?  She  was  angry  and  sore  at  the  unruffled 
composure  with  which  her  husband  acceded  to 
her  every  caprice,  and  hoped  to  arouse  his 
jealousy.  Of  course,  she  was  the  subject  of 
many  a  scandalous  story,  but  still  she  behaved 
much  more  discreetly  than  did  the  majority  of 
her  associates,  as  her  husband  knew  very  well. 
I  often  wondered  if  he  thought  any  more  of  her 
for  it.  He  doubtless  thought  that  a  coquette  is 
too  heartless  to  feel  real  passion,  and  perhaps  he 
also  reckoned  on  the  pride  of  a  woman  who  set 
too  high  a  value  upon  herself  to  derogate  easily. 
He  would  disinterestedly  place  before  her  his 
sufficiently  broad  code  of  morality,  in  which  she 
was  at  liberty  to  look  for  his  words  of  advice  and 
by  which  she  was  to  shape  her  conduct. — '  Too 
much  importance, '  he  would  say,  *is  attached 
to  the  language  of  gallantry ;  after  all,  every 
word  has  only  its  own  specific  meaning,  and  all 
will  go  well,  provided  that  the  woman  whose  wits 


126  Expiation. 


are  sharpened  in  the  contest  will  only  select  her 
interlocutor  from  those  who  know  enough  to 
answer  in  the  same  spirit  that  she  talks  to  them. 
The  main  thing  is  to  assure  yourself  beforehand 
that  he  is  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  to  take 
trifling  for  serious  business.* 

"  Sacha  found  that  he  was  right.  Only  once, 
in  selecting  her  admirers,  did  she  make  the 
mistake  of  departing  from  that  commonplace 
type  who  are  incapable  of  any  violent  emotion, 
and  on  that  account  fitted  for  their  role.  It  was 
at  the  time  when  she  was  endeavoring  to  form  a 
salon  that  should  be  distinguished  by  something 
more  earnest  than  the  usual  frivolity  ;  a  cer- 
tain artist  of  distinction,  upon  whom  she 
depended  to  impart  a  flavor  of  genius  to  her 
assemblies,  responded  to  her  advances  in  such  a 
manner  that  she  was  obliged  to  ring  for  her 
servants.  He  thereupon  took  occasion  to  openly 
calumniate  her,  and  in  consequence  became 
acquainted  with  the  point  of  her  husband's 
sword,  who,  on  this  occasion,  as  well  as  on 
several  others,  nobly  defended  the  honor  of  a 
foolish  woman,  who  perhaps  deserved  to  be 
spoken  ill  of.  It  was,  however,  as  she  very  well 
knew,  nothing  but  the  question  of  honor  which 


Expiation.  127 


influenced  his  action.  There  was  never  a  scene 
caused  by  outbreaking  jealousy ;  hardly  was 
there  even  a  taunting  word." 

**  Why,"  here  Berna^rd  tried  to  interrupt,  "did 
she  not  endeavor  to  conquer  his  esteem  ? " 

But  this  reflection  did  not  shape  itself  in 
words,  or  if  it  did,  they  were  uttered  so  low 
that  the  Countess  did  not  hear  them. 

"At  length,"  she  continued,  "  Sacha  gave  up 
in  despair  ;  she  could  no  longer  rely  even  on 
those  pleasures  in  which  she  so  long  had  sought 
a  factitious  forgetfulness  ;  before  her  youth 
should  entirely  depart  from  her,  she  wanted  to 
know  what  real  love  was.  Yet  a  few  years  and 
that  talisman  of  beauty,  without  which  a  woman 
is  as  nothing,  would  have  forever  left  her  ;  she 
felt  that  she  had  not  made  the  best  use 
that  she  could  of  this  great  gift.  She  must 
hasten  to  make  the  most  of  life  while  she  had 
it  in  her  power.  But  when  she  would  have 
descended  from  the  pedestal  where  she  had 
stood  to  receive  the  worship  of  her  adorers, 
Sacha  was  horrified  to  find  that  she  experienced 
only  a  feeling  of  disgust  toward  those  who 
professed  to  be  her  worshippers.  Could  it  be 
possible  that  the  race  of  heroes  of  romance  was 


128  Expiation. 


extinct,  or  had  this  race  never  existed  save  in 
the  imagination  of  novel  writers  and  the  empty 
brains  of  fools  ?  It  was  a  bitter  regret  to  her 
that  she  could  not  twine  a  wreath  of  roses 
around  the  head  of  some  rustic  clown  or  other, 
as  so  many  women  have  done  since  the  time  of 
Titania,  and  close  her  eyes  upon  the  ass'  ears 
and  whatever  other  infirmity,  moral  or  physical, 
there  might  be.  Notwithstanding  her  first  un- 
fortunate experience,  which  I  have  told  you  of, 
it  occured  to  her  that  perhaps  she  would  be 
more  successful  in  her  quest  outside  her  own 
society,  but  as  she  could  not  very  well  go  and 
hunt  for  this  unattainable  bird,  it  was  very  evi- 
dent that  she  must  wait  for  the  bird  to  come  to 
her.  And  so  Sacha  was  likely  to  wait  until  her 
hair  should  turn  gray,  was  likely  to  die  without 
having  once  tasted  the  only  supreme  joy  that 
life  affords." 

"  Then  your  friend  Sacha  had  no  children  ?  " 
enquired  Bernard,  in  a  tone  that  approached 
rudeness. 

She  turned  upon  him  with  a  movement  of 
impatience  :  '*  Do  you  think  that  a  child  can  fill 
the  place  of  every  other  interest,  and  that  all 
the  activities  of  a  woman's  life  are  to  be  circum- 


Expiation.  129 


scribed  by  her  duties  as  a  nurse  and  as  a  house- 
keeper?" 

"  Her  duties  as  a  mother  call  for  obedience," 
gravely  replied  Bernard. 

Annette  sighed.  "  I  read  in  your  eyes,"  said 
she,  "  a  reproach  that  is  leveled  at  another  per- 
son than  Sacha.  Do  not  be  too  hasty  in  your 
judgment,  or  rather  take  pains  to  hear  both  sides 
of  the  case.  Dima's  mother  should  have  been  a 
sister  of  charity.  I  am  utterly  useless  at  a  sick-bed. 
I  pity  him,  I  weep,  all  that  I  can  do  is  unavailing 
and  foolish.  If,  too,  his  trouble  were  one  that 
there  is  any  hope  of  his  recovering  from " 

**  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  we  tire  of  the 
spectacle  of  human  suffering,  or  that  by  long 
beholding  it  we  become  hardened  to  it  ? " 

"  You  are  too  severe.  It  is  true  that  I  am 
wanting  in  duty  toward  my  son,  since  at  this 
very  moment  I  am  keeping  you  away  from  him, 
when  you  might  be  doing  him  some  good  and 
directing  your  affection  for  him  into  a  useful 
channel.  Pardon  the  length  of  my  uninteresting 
tale.     Leave  me  and  go  to  the  child." 

"  No ;  I  would  rather  learn  what  was  the  fate 
of  that  unhappy  woman." 

"  You  pity  her  ?     Perhaps  you  are  right.     The 


130  Expiation. 


last  time  that  I  saw  her,  she  was  in  an  extremely 
critical  condition.  He,  whom  she  had  been 
awaiting  so  long,  who  was  to  incarnate  her  young 
dreams,  the  lover  predicted  by  the  horoscope, 
had  at  last  descended  from  fairy-land,  I  suppose, 
so  much  at  variance  with  his  condition  were  his 
face  and  his  deserving,  so  wrapped  in  mystery 
was  his  origin. 

"  Although  the  ideas  of  we  Russians  are  more 
liberal  than  is  generally  supposed,  I  was  some- 
what surprised  that  Sacha's  aristocratic  preju- 
dices— for  who  is  free  from  prejudice  ? — had 
not  been  a  safeguard  to  keep  her  from  being 
captivated  by  a  man  of  apparently  obscure  birth ; 
but  Sacha,  who  has  most  every  kind  of  know- 
ledge at  her  finger-ends,  mythology  among  the 
rest,  asked  me  if  Apollo  had  lost  his  divinity  at 
the  time  when  his  misfortune  had  made  him  a 
shepherd  ?  You  need  not  let  this  pretentious 
comparison  sway  you  to  the  inference  that  her 
shepherd  is  any  way  like  Apollo,  who,  after  all, 
was  of  an  insipid  kind  of  beauty,  something  after 
the  style  of  Fossombrone,  I  suppose." — Here 
the  Countess  gave  way  to  laughter. — "  No,  think 
of  him  rather  as  one  of  those  handsome  pages, 
that  princesses  and  chatelaines   used  to  fall  in 


Expiation,  131 


love  with  in  old  times,  and  who  used  to  die  at 
the  feet  of  Parisina,  or  in  the  arms  of  Frances- 
ca — "  she  looked  at  Bernard  through  her  half- 
closed  eyes  with  a  smile  that  made  him  shiver — 
"  for  there  is  no  need  to  tell  you  that  the  end 
of  such  adventures  is  always  a  poniard  stroke,  or 
something  of  that  nature.  Still,  our  story  may 
have  a  less  tragic  ending;  we  will  try  and  discover 
the  dinouement  at  some  other  time,  if  you  wish." 

When  Bernard  tried  to  arise,  he  had  to '  shake 
off  a  stupor  that  seemed  like  drunkeness. 

"  But  tell  me  first,"  said  the  Countess,  stop- 
ping him,  "  do  you  think  that  Sacha  can  ever  be 
loved  as  she  loves  ?  " 

*'  Her  love  will  be  repaid  to  her  a  thousand 
fold,"  he  replied,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said. 
"  Women  like  that  have  no  heart,  only  a  de- 
praved curiosity." 

"  I  thank  you  in  her  behalf,"  replied  Annette, 
laughing. 

As  he  retired  with  his  blood  boiling  in  his 
veins,  this  sound  of  laughter,  expressive  at  once 
of  emotion  and  triumph,  rang  in  his  ears,  and 
the  perfume  that  the  Countess  habitually  used 
seemed  to  follow  him,  subtle  and  lasting  as  a 
love  charm. 


132  Expiation, 


VII. 


|HAT  can  be  the  matter  with  her?  " 
enquired  Scharf,  after  the  reunion 
of  the  party  at  dinner.  Madame 
Volonzoff  had  scarcely  opened  her  lips  during 
the  whole  evening,  and  the  absent-minded  way 
in  which  she  fitfully  transfixed  her  embroidery 
with  her  needle  betrayed  a  preoccupation,  which 
rendered  her  insensible  to  what  was  going  on 
around  her.  The  most  astounding  of  all  the 
symptoms  was  that  she  had  not  changed  her 
dress.  Bernard  remembered  having  expressed 
his  admiration  of  the  good  taste  of  this  dress,  it 
being  plainer  than  those  which  she  generally 
wore.  Was  it  by  chance,  or  was  it  intentionally 
that  she  still  had  it  on  ? 

When,  it  was  evident  to  the  two  young  men 
that  she  intended  to  persevere  in  this  unwonted 
silence,  and  that  politeness  commanded  them  to 
withdraw,  the  Countess  did   nothing  to   retain 


Expiation.  133 


them  ;  she  waited  until  the  Doctor  had  passed 
the  door-sill,  then,  as  Bernard  was  about  to  fol- 
low, she  summoned  him  to  her  side.  He  turned 
and  advanced  a  few  steps  in  her  direction. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  our  conversation 
of  this  morning,"  said  she.  '*  Do  you  really  think 
that  I  ought  to  devote  more  of  my  time  to  Dima?" 

"  Your  own  heart,  Madame,  should  be  a  bet- 
ter adviser  for  you  in  this  case  than  I  can  be." 

"  But  you  would  approve  of  my  doing  so  ? " 

"  Madame,  most  certainly  !  " 

"Very  well!" 

She  looked  at  him  submissively,  with  an  ex- 
pression that  he  had  never  seen  on  her  face  be- 
fore, and  she  gave  him  her  hand  ;  as  he  was  about 
to  take  it  in  his  usual  respectful  manner,  she  of 
her  own  accord  raised  it  to  his  lips.  She  had 
often  allowed  him  to  kiss  her  hand  before,  but  it 
had  never  caused  him  such  mental  disturbance 
as  now. 

When,  that  night,  after  the  story  of  Sacha's 
education  and  trials  had  served  to  excuse  a  thou- 
sand fold  Madame  Volonzoff's  conduct,  Bernard 
at  last  fell  into  a  troubled  slumber,  he  dreamed 
that  he  was  tossing  in  the  little  gilded  boat  on 
the  artificial  river  in  the  park,  which  had  now  be- 


134  Expiation. 


come  a  raging  torrent.  The  Countess  was  at  the 
tiller,  her  hair  flying  in  disorder.  As  he  lay  at 
her  feet,  he  called  her  by  the  familiar  name  of 
Sacha.  The  little  boat  turned  around  and  around, 
whirled  along  by  the  current,  while  a  female  form 
upon  the  shore,  dimly  visible  through  the  mist, 
seemed  to  be  making  signals  of  distress.  As  he 
looked  he  seemed  to  recognize  Rose,  and  turned 
away  his  head.  Annette's  hair,  blown  around 
him  by  the  wind,  enveloped  him  in  a  perfumed 
caress  which  by  degrees  changed  to  keenest  tor- 
ture ;  he  seemed  to  be  strangling,  he  tried  to  cry 
out,  but  was  voiceless;  all  around  him  the  roar 
of  the  seething  waters  kept  continuously  increas- 
ing in  volume.  He  heard  the  straining  and 
creaking  of  the  boat's  timbers;  the  dark  pleas- 
ure of  such  a  death  filled  his  mind,  at  the 
same  moment  he  heard  a  voice  that  seemed 
to  shatter  his  reason,  crying  :  "  You  are  mine  !  " 
When  he  at  last  awoke  from  the  horrors  and 
delights  of  this  night-mare,  he  was  handed  a 
package  from  France,  a  few  lines  from  Madame 
Desaubiers  accompanying  the  portrait  that  he 
had  been  waiting  for  so  long  and  so  impatiently, 
and  which,  now  that  it  had  come  to  hand,  brought 
with  it  an  emotion  that  was  very  like  remorse. 


Expiation.  135 


Her  excess  of  modesty  had  prevented  the 
artist  from  doing  herself  full  justice.  Rose 
seemed  to  have  grown  thinner.  Hard  work  and 
constant  mental  strain  never  make  a  woman  more 
beautiful  physically,  whatever  effect  they  may 
have  on  her  moral  nature.  To  a  stranger  it 
would  have  seemed  an  exquisite  work  of  art, 
rather  than  the  picture  of  a  pretty  woman,  and 
for  the  space  of  a  second  Bernard  looked  at  it  with 
the  eyes  of  a  stranger,  whereas  twenty-four  hours 
earlier  he  would  have  gone  down  on  his  knees  be- 
fore the  ivory  tablet  that  was  at  once  the  handi- 
work and  the  image  of  Rose.  It  is  true  that  tears 
soon  came  and  washed  away  the  involuntary  crime. 
He  thought  of  the  hours  that  she  had  taken  from 
her  needed  rest  in  order  to  devote  them  to  him,  he 
thought  of  the  memories  and  fond  hopes  that  had 
accompanied  every  stroke  of  her  brush,  and  of 
her  modest  blush  that  had  enhanced  her  beauty 
as  she  pictured  to  herself  his  joy  when  he  should 
receive  this  portrait.  There  was  her  sweet, 
patient  smile,  her  naturally  curling  hair,  refusing 
to  be  confined,  and  escaping  over  her  broad, 
white  forehead,  the  well-worn  black  dress  that 
she  had  worn  the  day  he  went  away,  unrelieved, 
save  by  a  single  blue  ribbon  which  he  had  begged 


136  Expiation. 


from  her,  or  rather  which  she  had  offered  him, 
anticipating  the  dearest  wish  of  his  heart.  The 
poor  child  was  not  one  of  those  coquettes  who 
think  that  their  favors  are  more  highly  valued 
because  they  have  to  be  prayed  for.  And  Rose's 
picture  was  not  the  only  thing  that  he  beheld 
within  the  frame.  There  suddenly  came  back  to 
him,  as  in  a  mirror,  the  little  work-room  where 
her  sisterly  words  had  made  clear  to  him  her 
goodness  and  her  depth  of  feeling  ;  the  sad,  com- 
plaining mother,  object  of  her  tender  care;  M^id- 
ame  Desaubiers*  garden,  and  the  little  stream  in 
whose  murmurings  had  been  lost  the  words  that 
he  then  looked  upon  as  a  betrothal,  although,  after 
all  no  definite  promise  had  been  exchanged  be- 
tween them,  absolutely  none.  Why  was  it  that 
he  breathed  more  freely  as  he  thought  of  this,  as 
if  his  affections  were  relieved  from  a  load  that 
was  bearing  them  down  and  were  impatient  to 
take  wing  and  settle  in  another  quarter  ?  He 
stubbornly  recalled  them  again  to  Rose,  and  in 
the  process  of  this  invocation  became  so  insensi- 
ble to  what  was  passing  that  he  failed  to  hear 
some  one  knocking  at  his  door.  At  least  Scharf 
afterward  said  that  he  had  knocked  several  times, 
quite  loudly;  what  is  certain  is,  that  having  made 


Expiation,  137 


his  entry,  he  stealthily  approached  Bernard,  who 
started  and  quickly  shut  the  portrait  in  its  case 
when  he  saw  the  watchful  face  peering  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  Excuse  lAe,"  said  the  Doctor,  smiling.  "  I 
am  intruding.  I  have  interrupted  a  tete-a-tete 
with  your  betrothed." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  Bernard  shortly 
replied. 

"  Heavens  !  Can  I  have  made  a  mistake  ? 
You  seemed  to  be  so  completely  absorbed  in  the 
contemplation  of  that  young  lady.  .  .Pardon 
me  !  What  an  interesting  face  !  Will  you  allow 
me  to  look  at  it  again  ? "  And  explaining  to 
Bernard  the  cause,  or  the  pretext  of  his  visit,  the 
Doctor  applied  himself  to  a  scrutinizing  examin- 
ation of  the  picture.  "What  wonderful  depth  of 
expression  !  I  would  wager  that  this  person  has 
talent  that  no  obstacle  can  check  the  develope- 
ment  of.  And  what  feminine  sweetness  withal  ! 
That  is  a  woman  who,  when  she  loves,  will  make 
her  love  her  religion,  and  he  would  be  a  wretch  who 
should  show  himself  unworthy  of  such  a  love.  She 
is  your  betrothed !  Why  could  you  not  have 
told  me  so  at  first  ?  I  am  glad  to  know  that  you 
have  such  a  guardian  angel." 


138  Expiation. 


"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  in  danger  ?  Who  is 
there  that  I  require  to  be  guarded  against  ?" 

"  Against  your  own  self,  perhaps  ;  and  against 
Circe." 

"You  talk  in  riddles." 

"  You  do  not  care  to  understand.  As  you  will. 
I  will  admit,  if  you  force  me  to,  that  when  the 
Countess  administers  her  poisons  to  a  man  as 
young  as  you,  and  a  Frenchman  to  boot,  the  effect 
is  to  deprive  him  of  reason." 

"  I  was  expecting  this  conclusion.  Now  let 
fly  your  arrow  against  French  frivolity  and 
French  gallantry,  as  you  always  do." 

"  I  am  not  an  expert  with  the  bow,  and  should 
make  a  bad  hand  at  shooting  with  it,  but  I  can 
give  you  some  good  advice.  I  say  that  a  young 
man  and  a  Frenchman  might  be  excused  if  he 
allowed  himself  to  be  fooled  by  tricks  which 
have  turned  heads  that  are,  to  say  the  least,  as 
level  as  his  own." 

'*  Doctor  Scharf's,  for  example." 

**For  my  part,"  seriously  replied  the  Doctor, 
**I  have  a  mistress  compared  with  whom  all 
others  in  the  world  are  as  nothing.  Her  name 
is  Science,  and  she  soothes  the  imagination,  which 
on  the  other  hand,  is  unduly  excited  by  the  pur- 


Expiation.  139 


suits  of  literature,  which  I  take  to  be  your  favor- 
ite occupation,  my  dear  sir.  Moreover,  I  have 
none  of  those  physical  advantages  which  attract 
women." 

Bernard  could  not  help  smiling,  for  he  knew 
that  the  Doctor  was  almost  as  vain  of  his  well- 
knit  form,  set  off  as  it  was  by  the  delicate  com- 
plexion of  a  young  girl,  as  he  was  of  his  mental 
acquirements  and  his  stern  morality. 

"Besides,"  pursued  Scharf,  with  ill-disguised 
vindictiveness,  "  no  one  has  ever  done  me  the 
distinguished  honor  of  closing  the  doors  of  a 
house,  which  were  formerly  used  to  stand  open 
to  all  comers,  so  as  to  enjoy  undisturbed  the 
pleasure  of  my  society." 

"  How  do  you  interpret  a  caprice  that  is  like 
so  many  others  that  have  preceded  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  give  the  interpretation.  If 
you  had  not  interrupted  me  at  every  word,  you 
would  have  known  that  you  are  everywhere  re- 
garded as  the  Countess'  lover." 

**  Her  lover  !  " 

"  Don't  get  excited.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to 
say  that  such  an  idea  could  only  have  emanated 
from  Italians,  who  are  democratic,  like  all  artists, 
in  whose  eyes  personal  beauty  is  of  as  much  ac- 


I40  Expiation, 


count  as  a  patent  of  nobility  ;  or  from  that  bare- 
faced Princess  K.,  who  always  selects  such  hand- 
some little  secretaries  for  her  husband.  But  we 
know  very  well  that  certain  favors  are  to  be  at- 
tributed only  to  the  dearth  of  the  moment,  that 
the  doctor  or  the  tutor  are  used  as  make-shifts 
for  an  evening  and  have  really  nothing  to  boast 
of.  That  is  how  I  explained  matters  yesterday 
to  those  good  people  from  Genoa,  who  maintain 
that  there  is  a  scandal  ;  haven't  you  noticed 
that  Fossombrone — he  no  longer  gets  any  in- 
vitations here,  by  the  way,  and  his  visits  are 
less  frequent,  and  he  is  no  longer  the  greatest 
singer  in  the  world — haven't  you  noticed  that 
that  great  ninny  Fossombrone,  whenever  he 
comes  here,  has  hard  work  to  keep  himself  from 
cutting  your  throat  ?  We  will  let  these  cast-off 
gallants  talk  as  they  please,  and  we  will  show  the 
Countess  that  we  have  no  inclination  to  one  day 
swell  their  number." 

"  You  may  be  assured  that,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned, there  will  never  be  any  necessity  of  show- 
ing the  Countess  anything  of  the  kind,"  said 
Bernard,  keeping  himself  in  countenance  by  put- 
ting away  Rose's  portrait  at  the  bottom  of  a  lit- 
tle casket,  where  Scharf,  near-sighted  as  he  was, 


Expiation,  141 


could  distinguish  perfectly  a  bundle  of  letters 
tied  up  with  a  blue  ribbon. 

"  In  any  case,  the  remembrance  of  that  sweet 
child  would  be  your  defence,  I  suppose.  Again, 
pardon  me  ;  I  feel  a  sincere  interest  in  you." 

Smarting  under  the  Doctor's  insinuations,  Ber- 
nard entered  his  pupil's  chamber.  The  Count- 
ess was  there  ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  re- 
lentlessly pursued  by  a  phantom  that  was  im- 
placably bent  on  destroying  his  peace,  and  his 
strength  came  back  to  him,  as  it  always  docs 
come  back  to  us  in  the  presence  of  great  peril. 
He  instantly  resolved  to  steel  himself  against 
those  wiles  which  had  disgusted  him  when  they 
were  directed  against  others,  and  which  were 
now  concentrated  upon  him  alone  with  the  ob- 
ject of  making  him  their  victim.  But  the  system 
of  defence  which  he  had  planned  for  himself  in 
his  inexperience  was  disarranged  by  an  unforseen 
change  of  tactics  on  the  part  of  the  enemy  ;  he 
did  not  encounter  the  foe  whom  he  expected  to 
meet ;  he  only  saw  a  watchful  mother  at  the  bed- 
side of  her  son,  tenderly  and  thoughtfully  caring 
for  him,  awkward,  it  is  true,  about  many  things 
that  were  new  to  her  experience,  but  apparently 
trying  tp  atone   for  past  neglect  by  her  present 


142  Expiation, 


zeal.  Certainly  the  change  had  been  a  very  sud- 
den one.  Had  he  any  right,  however,  to  doubt 
its  sincerity  ?  Moreover,  had  he  the  honest  de- 
sire of  looking  clearly  at  their  reciprocal  rela- 
tions ?  From  this  time,  Madame  Volonzoff  made 
it  a  point  to  pass  many  hours  each  day  at  Di- 
ma's  bedside.  The  child's  puzzled  glance,  fall- 
ing now  upon  his  mother,  and  now  upon  Ber- 
nard, seemed  to  enquire  the  reason  of  so  great 
a  change,  but  as  it  was  to  his  advantage  he  soon 
became  accustomed  to  it.  Conversation  and 
reading  were  carried  on  at  his  side,  apparently  to 
divert  and  please  him.  If  Annette  was  base 
enough  to  convert  the  most  sacred  of  all  feelings, 
maternal  love,  into  a  lie  and  a  snare,  the  trick 
was  well  laid  and  cunningly  concealed,  but  in 
her  attitude  and  her  whole  personality  there  was 
an  indescribable  expression  of  tenderness  and 
humility,  if  I  may  say  so,  which  exerted  upon  him, 
on  whom  she  seemed  to  have  no  designs,  a  charm 
far  greater  than  he  had  ever  known  before. 

She  watched  his  countenance,  consulted  him 
with  her  eye  without  speaking,  anticipated  his 
wishes,  soothing  him  with  the  most  delicious  of 
all  flatteries,  that  which  induces  in  a  very  young, 
inartificial  man,  the  belief  that  he  decides  all 


Expiation,  143 


the  doings  of  a  woman  older  than  himself,  who 
had  previously  been  remarkable  for  imperious- 
ness  and  strength  of  will.  When  by  chance  she 
met  his  eyes,  she  would  turn  her  own  away,  and 
then  Bernard  would  experience  a  thrill  of  pleas- 
ure. The  presence  of  the  child,  which  seemed 
to  render  their  tete-a-tete  safe  and  was  its  justi- 
fication as  well,  while  at  the  same  time  giving 
them  a  means  of  escape  from  Scharf's  prying 
inquisition ;  the  dream  of  freeing  from  the 
miserable,  childish  interests  which  had  hitherto 
possessed  it,  a  soul  created,  as  he  believed,  for 
nobler  objects ;  Annette's  reserve,  which  in- 
creased day  by  day,  and  which  had  dissipated 
not  only  her  accustomed  bold  manner,  but  also 
her  familiar  ways  toward  himself :  all  these 
considerations  contributed  at  once  to  reassure 
Bernard  and  to  lure  him  on  to  his  destruction. 

The  effect  upon  the  feelings  of  an  early  love, 
disguised  under  the  form  of  ideal  tenderness,  is 
very  misleading ;  it  requires  more  than  man's 
strength  to  go  scot-free  under  such  circum- 
stances. Life  slipped  away  deliciously  at  An- 
nette's side,  so  changed  as  she  was  from  her  old 
self,  and  so  captivating  in  the  new  part  she  was 
now  playing.     Bernard  was  as  heedless  of  the 


44  Expiation, 


present  as  the  opium-eater,  or  as  the  plant 
which  keeps  its  face  turned  toward  the  sun  as 
it  rises  and  sinks,  and  little  by  little  all  his  moral 
energy  was  exhausted  in  this  condition  of  beati- 
tude, this  Nirvand.  She  was  conscious  of  it, 
and  tightened  the  bonds  which  Delilah  be- 
queathed to  her  likes.  At  this  time,  as  she 
was  nearing  the  goal  of  her  ambition,  she  no 
longer  felt  ennui ;  with  an  eager  curiosity  that 
was  somewhat  like  passion,  she  counted  the 
stormy  beatings  of  this  fresh  and  impression- 
able heart.  She  had  reigned  until  she  was 
tired  ;  now  she  was  a  little,  trembling  creature, 
and  she  found  a  piquant  pleasure  in  her  abdi- 
cation. Bernard  looked  to  Rose  for  the  sup- 
port which  Scharf  had  foreseen  he  would  need  ; 
a  thousand  times  he  read  her  letters,  a  thou- 
sand times  did  he  invoke  her  portrait.  Why  did 
the  letters  always  seem  cold  ?  Why  did  the 
portrait  always  seem  to  look  at  him  with  mute, 
sad  eyes,  vainly  reproaching  him  ?  It  ended  by 
his  locking  away  in  the  casket,  once  for  all,  these 
poor  relics  that  were  powerless  to  save  him.  If 
he  could  have  but  also  locked  away  the  remem- 
brances that  haunted  him  without  helping  or 
strengthening  him  !     What  is  the  past  under  the 


Expiation,  145 


enchantment  of  the  present  ?  What  was  an 
angel  like  Rose  compared  with  a  woman  like 
Countess  Annette  ?  Perhaps  he  still  continued 
to  worship  one  upon  the  purest  alter  of  his 
inmost  thoughts,  but  he  belonged  body  and 
soul  to  the  other. 


146  Expiation. 


VIII. 

lERNARD  could  not  have  told  how 
long  this  new  phase  of  his  existence 
lasted.  He  was  aroused  from  the 
agreeable  stupor  which  was  daily  enfolding  him 
more  and  more  closely,  and  the  delights  of  which 
made  him  think  that  there  was  nothing  to  be 
wished  for  beyond,  by  the  sudden  resurrection 
of  the  mad  Countess  in  her  old  nature.  The 
change  was  sudden  and  accompanied  by  a  kind 
of  delirium. 

It  was  the  height  of  carnival.  A  note  of  invi- 
tation reminded  Madame  Volonzoff  of  the  ball 
that  she  had  promised  to  honor  with  her  presence 
in  the  character  of  Roussalka.  The  costume  had 
arrived  from  Paris,  and  the  case  in  which  it  was 
contained  still  remained  unopened ;  Annette 
had  said  to  Bernard  with  a  smile, — her  smile,  that 
concealed  so  much  and  was  so  eloquent  with 
a  hidden  meaning  : 


Expiation.  147 


**  You  know  that  I  do  not  intend  to  go." 

So  she  thought  all  the  morning.  She  did  not 
make  her  appearance  at  all  in  her  son's  room  that 
afternoon,  and  remained  in  the  great  drawing- 
room,  which  was  almost  always  deserted  now, 
but  where  the  Doctor  kept  her  company  on  this 
occasion.  When  evening  came,  she  dined  by 
herself  in  her  apartment. 

"You  are  not  eating,  Monsieur  Bernard,"  said 
Scharf,  who  seemed  to  be  in  high  spirits.  "  For- 
tunately they  always  have  magnificent  suppers  at 
the  Palace  Fossombrone." 

"  But  I  am  not  going  to  the  ball." 

**  Why  not  ?  I  am  going,  and  I  am  a  serious- 
minded  man at  least  you  are  pleased  to  so 

designate  me." 

"  And  in  what  kind  of  a  case  do  you  propose 
to  pack  away  this  seriousness  of  yours?" 

"What  do  you  think  of  my  going  as  Clown,  or 
as  Punch  ?  A  Venetian  domino  is  suited  to  all 
ages  and  to  all  professions.  You  don't  show  much 
curiosity.  I  would  not  miss  seeing  the  Countess 
make  her  entree  for  anything  in  the  world." 

"So  she  will  go?" 

**  Did  you  ever  doubt  it  ?  You  know  very 
little   about  women.     Their   firmest  resolutions 


148  Expiation. 


yield  before  a  new  costume  and  the  imperious 
necessity  of  showing  themselves  in  public." 

That  capped  the  climax.  The  day  that  he  had 
just  got  through  had  seemed  to  Bernard  a  cen- 
tury. He  had  been  constantly  listening  for  the 
sound  of  a  footstep,  which,  light  as  it  was,  his 
car  could  always  distinguish  when  it  sounded  at 
the  end  of  the  long  gallery.  Even  Dima  had 
noticed  how  sad  and  absent-minded  he  was. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  with  tender 
anxiety.  **  Have  you  received  bad  news  from 
your  friends  at  home  ?  Won't  you  tell  me  what 
troubles  you  ?  I  am  sure  that  I  always  tell  you 
everything.  And  perhaps  I  might  comfort  you,  as 
you  always  comfort  me.  Would  you  rather  tell 
mamma  ?     Why  don't  she  come  to-day  ?  " 

He  was  conscious  of  an  undefined  feeling  of 
impatience  under  these  innocent  questions. 
Abandoning  his  quest  for  information,  Dima  con- 
tented himself  with  watching  him  whom  he  called 
his  master,  but  who  to-day  was  only  a  poor  child 
as  wretched  as  himself,  as  he  gave  way  to  the  flood 
of  bitter  thoughts,  his  head  leaning  against  the 
marble  of  the  chimney-piece,  his  joined  hands 
clasping  his  knee.  Suddenly  the  rustling  of  a 
dress  as  it  swept  the  stone   pavement    outside 


Expiation,  149 


brought  him  to  an  erect  position.  He  changed 
color  and  arose  with  a  beating  heart,  frightened 
at  the  strength  of  his  emotions. 

**Ah!  there  comes  mamma!"  cried  Dima, 
clapping  his  hands. 

The  door  opened,  and  the  Countess  advanced 
with  a  rapid  step  toward  her  son,  apparently 
unconscious  of  Bernard's  presence.  She  was 
wrapped  in  a  great,  dark-colored  mantle, 
lined  with  fur,  and  all  of  her  that  was  visible 
was  her  head  and  face.  Her  hair  this  evening 
was  of  that  peculiar  red  that  Titian  has  so 
often  depicted,  though  never  so  rich  and  abun- 
dant and  so  artistically  arranged  as  hers. 

Her  face,  that  seemed  to  be  on  fire  beneath 
its  coating  of  rouge,  her  eyes,  inordinately 
lengthened  and  blackened  by  the  pencil,  gave 
her  a  strange  expression,  that  somehow  reminded 
one  of  the  proud,  disdainful  anger  of  a  god- 
dess ;  perhaps  she  had  aimed  at  this  effect 
as  suitable  to  the  fantastic  character  that  she 
had  selected  for  herself.  Like  the  Roussalka 
bursting  from  the  shades  of  night,  by  a  rapid 
movement  she  caused  the  satin  folds  of  her 
mantle  to  fall  on  the  floor  at  her  feet.  What 
was   disclosed  was  not   a    costume,    using   the 


150  Expiation. 


word  in  its  usual  acceptation.  There  were  knots 
and  bows,  spangles,  shells,  reeds,  drops  of  crys- 
tal, golden  and  silver  shells,  billows  of  shimmer- 
ing silk  defining  the  form  which  it  made  a  pre- 
tence of  concealing  ;  in  a  word,  it  was  the  get- 
up  of  a  fairy,  but  the  fine  proportions  and  the 
lofty  bearing  of  its  wearer  went  far  toward 
lessening  the  effect  of  its  immodesty  and  its 
uncouth  taste. 

Dima  uttered  an  exclamation  of  astonishment, 
rather  than  of  admiration,  covering  his  face 
with  his  hands  as  if  he  were  dazzled : 

"It  is  beautiful,"  said  he,  "but  it  is  not 
mamma  !  " 

"Mamma  is  a  Roussalka  this  evening.  Adieu! 
You  need  not  kiss  me,  you  will  disarrange  my 
hair  ;  I  am  going  to  the  ball." 

"  You  are  going  to  the  ball  ?  But  you  are 
not  going  dressed  like  that,  are  you  ? " 

The  child's  exclamation  expressed  so  much 
terror  that  Bernard  breathlessly  waited  to  see 
what  effect  would  follow.  He  imagined  that  he 
caught  her  blushing  a  little  beneath  her  paint, 
and  she  hurriedly  picked  up  her  outer  covering 
from  the  floor  and  placed  it  around  her  shoulders. 

"You  foolish   fellow!"    said  she.   "it  is  the 


Expiation,  151 


fashion  ;  all  ladies  dress  like  this  for  the  car- 
nival fetes.  You  have  seen  me  disguised  many 
a  time,  haven't  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  never  so  much  as  now,"  stammered 
the  child,  with  averted  eyes. 

The  mother  just  touched  with  her  painted 
lips  the  cheek  which  the  boy  did  not  venture 
to  offer  her  lest  he  might  do  some  damage  to 
the  so-called  toilette,  then  casting  a  strange 
look  of  defiance  toward  Bernard,  who  stood 
motionless,  she  left  the  room. 

He  slowly  fell  back  into  the  seat  which  he 
had  left  upon  her  entrance,  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand how  it  was  that  he  had  not  thrown  him- 
self at  her  feet  to  pray  her  to  have  pity  on  him, 
or  that  he  had  not  prevented  her  from  going  at 
any  risk,  even  if  he  had  to  kill  her.  He 
thought  that  he  would  follow  her  ;  it  seemed 
as  if  a  new  nature,  whose  violence  he  could 
not  restrain,  had  taken  possession  of  his  being. 
Annette  and  the  Roussalka  were  two  distinct 
images  in  his  mind  ;  for  the  latter  he  felt  only 
scorn  and  fierce  desire,  but  the  former,  the 
woman^  who  had  appeared  to  him  during  the 
few  days  that  he  now  called  his  life-time,  he 
felt   that  he  could  not  resign  himself   to   lose 


152  Expiation. 


and  he  would  have  brought  her  back  and  saved 
her.  Suddenly,  when  his  madness  was  at  its 
height,  he  remembered  that  Dima  was  by.  He 
was  mindful  of  the  child  to  whom  he  had  for- 
merly taught  those  virtues  that  he  himself  val- 
ued so  little  that  he  could  forget  them  in  a 
minute,  who  now  saw  him  giving  way  to  a  des- 
pair of  which  he  could  not  tell  the  cause.  He 
mechanically  went  and  sat  upon  the  side  of  the 
bed  and  spoke  to  the  boy. 

"  Be  silent,  I  beg  you,"  Dima  interrupted,  put- 
titig  his  arm  around  Bernard's  neck  ;  **  remem- 
ber what  you  said  to  me  once  when  I  ran  away 
and  hid  myself  to  cry  :  *  Shed  your  tears  in  my 
presence,  if  you  love  me.'  I  know  that  a  man 
never  cries,  but  don't  pretend  to  seem  cheerful 
when  you  are  grieved." 

Bernard  received  in  silence  the  embrace  of 
the  only  friend  who  could  extend  his  pity  to 
him,  as  being  too  innocent  to  guess  his  secret ; 
and  then  the  tone  of  Dima's  voice,  changed  by 
emotion,  had  reminded  him  of  the  mother's  :  it 
was  a  recollection  of  her.  The  bitterness  that 
filled  his  heart  overflowed  in  one  of  the  infre- 
quent and  burning  tears  that  are  unknown  to 
childhood. 


Expiation.  153 


He  made  no  effort  to  sleep  that  night.  He 
walked  his  room  to  and  fro,  now  picturing  in 
imagination  with  all  the  torments  of  hopeless  jeal- 
ousy everything  that  was  passing  at  the  Palace 
Fossombrone,  and  the  insolent  admiration  of 
which  Annette  was  the  object,  now  trying  to  ac- 
count for  the  sudden  change  that  had  taken 
place  in  her,  and  why  it  was  that  this  change  had 
caused  him  such  mortal  despair.  Was  it  possi- 
ble that  he  was  in  love  ?  Could  he  be  in  love 
with  her  ?  Was  this  love,  this  terrible,  unrecog- 
nizable sensation,  with  its  delirium  like  that  of 
fever  ?  He  pressed  his  heavy  head,  where  the 
ideas  seemed  to  be  whirling  in  inextricable 
chaos,  against  the  cool  glass  of  the  window.  The 
stars  were  glittering  like  great  diamonds  set  in 
the  black  vault  of  heaven  ;  the  white  railings  of 
the  terrace  and  the  shadows  of  the  pines,  spread 
out  like  parasols,  were  clearly  defined  ;  the  pool 
reflected  the  cold  rays  of  the  wintry  moon  in  its 
unruffled  mirror.  This  contrast  of  the  calm  sever- 
ity of  nature,  sleeping  in  somber  nakedness,  with 
the  ferment  of  the  poor  heart  that  was  no  longer 
under  his  control,  might  have  impressed  Bernard; 
but  then  we  are  not  prone  to  philosophize  while 
We  are  smarting  under  the  lash  of  suffering. 


154  Expiation, 


Through  the  window  it  seemed  as  if  there  was 
nothing  visible  except  the  long  galleries  of  the 
Palace  Fossombrone,  where  the  allegorical  fig- 
ures on  the  walls  seemed  to  live  and  breathe  in 
the  dazzling  light  from  the  chandeliers,  in  the 
intoxicating  odor  of  hot-house  plants,  while  by 
hundreds  characters  from  history  and  ro- 
mance, of  all  times  and  all  countries,  jostled  each 
other  in  grand  disorder  at  her  feet,  around  her^ 
for  her  delight  and  amusement.  The  fete  was 
at  the  height  of  its  splendor,  the  music  played 
in  delirious  time,  the  waltzers  floated  by  on 
wings,  the  senses  were  excited  to  a  point  of 
exaltation ;  every  one  seemed  to  be  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  her  costume.  For  was  she  not  a 
born  Roussalka,  deceitful  and  cruel  siren  ?  The 
tongues  of  the  mothers  were  loosened,  no  con- 
sideration restrained  their  words  ;  what  whis- 
pered avowals  was  she  receiving,  and  what  reply 
was  she  making  ?  How  quickly  she  had  forgot- 
ten him,  and  those  hours  of  delicious  friendship, 
during  which  he  had  thought  that  he  had  learned 
to  know  her  !  And  all  the  time  she  had  been 
playing  with  him.     To  what  end  ? 

Unable  to  remain  longer  in  his  room  with  such 
thoughts  for  companions,  he  stopped  in  his  me- 


Expiation.  155 


chanical  walk,  lighted  a  fresh  cigar  at  one  of  the  ex- 
piring candles  and  descended  to  the  terrace,  where 
at  least  he  would  no  longer  hear  the  eternal  tick- 
tack  of  the  clock  as  it  measured  the  slow-paced 
hours  of  her  absence.  The  night  air  did  really 
exert  a  calming  influence.  He  remained  a  few 
minutes  without  thinking,  all  his  faculties  be- 
numbed and  inoperative.  But  this  relief  from  ex- 
treme tension,  this  appearance  of  repose,  was  not 
of  long  duration.  The  sound  of  wheels  again  made 
his  blood  boil  in  his  veins.  But  it  could  not  be  she 
as  yet.  She  would  not  return  before  morning. 
The  sound  drew  nearer,  however  ;  the  great  gate 
creaked  as  it  swung  upon  its  hinges.  He  entered 
the  house,  determined  that  she  should  not  have 
the  pleasure  of  witnessing  the  agitation  that  she 
had  been  the  cause  of.  To  return  so  early,  her 
stay  at  the  ball  must  have  been  very  short.  What 
motive  could  have  induced  her  to  return  ?  In 
his  astonishment,  the  Countess  came  up  with  him 
in  the  vestibule.  She  uttered  a  low  cry  as  she 
saw  him. 

"  What,  still  up  ?  It  is  really  not  so  very  late, 
though,  but  the  evening  seemed  long  to  me  be- 
cause I  was  dreadfully  bored." 

Bernard  stammered  out  some  kind  of  a  confused 


156  Expiation. 


explanation  about  his  having  been  to  the  library 
for  a  book. 

Listening  to  him  with  an  incredulous  air,  she 
went  up  the  marble  staircase,  preceding  him  by 
two  or  three  steps.  Suddenly  she  turned  and 
confronted  him  with  a  frown  upon  her  face  ;  her 
expression  was  troubled  and  sad.  The  rouge 
had  fallen  from  her  face  ;  the  marble  statue  be- 
neath them,  filling  his  post  of  torch  bearer,  was  not 
whiter  than  she  was  under  the  shadow  of  her  hood. 
She  had  twisted  her  lace  handkerchief  in  her 
nervous  fingers  until  it  was  torn  to  shreds. 

"  Listen,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  but  dwell- 
ing   upon  every  word  with  solemn   emphasis  ; 

**  since  you  are  here,  I  wish  to  know Tell 

me,  is  it  true  that  you  left  behind  you  in  France 
a  young  girl  whom  you  love  and  whom  you  are 
engaged  to  marry?" 

So,  what  he  had  taken  for  scorn  and  cruelty 
was  jealous  anger  and  revenge,  and  this  was 
her  way  of  confessing  it. 

Everything  seemed  to  Bernard  to  be  whirling 
before  his  eyes  ;  he  reeled  and  steadied  himself 
against  the  baluster,  which  appeared  to  recede 
from  him.  He  could  never  understand  how  it 
was  that  in  this  moment  of  surprise  and  nameless 


Expiation,  157 


rapture  he  could  cnnunciate  the  words :  "  I 
love  you.  I  have  never  loved  any  one  but  you  !  " 
His  very  soul  came  to  his  lips,  as  it  were,  in  spite 
of  himself,  and  he  could  not  recognize  the  voice, 
that  told  him  of  it.  A  triumphant  motion  of  the 
head,  that  meant,  there  was  no  mistaking  its  mean- 
ing: "At  last!"  had  escaped  the  Countess. 
She  bent  over  toward  the  young  man,  who  saw  her 
face  close  to  his  and  felt  her  warm,  sweet  breath 
upon  his  cheek.  He  stretched  out  his  arm,  but 
as  he  suddenly  drew  it  back,  she  said  aloud  : 

**  Till  to-morrow." 

A  chambermaid,  awaiting  the  Countess,  had 
appeared  at  the  head  of  the  staircase.  The  door 
of  a  neighboring  apartment  closed,  and  Bernard, 
alone  on  the  deserted  staircase,  might  have  fan- 
cied that  it  had  all  been  a  dream. 

The  next  morning,  as  he  descended  these  same 
stairs,  he  met  M.  Volonzoff,  who  gave  him  a 
cordial  shake  of  the  hand.  M.  Volonzoff  had 
not  returned  unexpectedly ;  he  had  been  ex- 
pected for  several  days,  but  Bernard  had  given 
no  thought  either  to  his  return  or  to  anything 
that  had  no  bearing  upon  his  great  happiness. 

The  sight  of  Annette's  husband  troubled  him. 
The   liking   that   he   had   formerly  felt  for  the 


158  Expiation. 


Count,  however,  like  all  the  warm  feelings  that 
he  had  experienced  up.  to  this  time,  was  now 
overmastered  by  that  fever  of  the  imagination 
and  the  senses,  to  which  the  severe  way  of  life  of 
his  youth  and  his  want  of  experience  in  adven- 
tures of  this  description,  rendered  him  so  much 
the  more  liable  ;  but  he  dreaded  that  clear  in- 
sight which  he  had  already  had  occasion  to  see 
in  operation,  and  which  was  never  at  fault  when 
it  was  called  upon.  Under  such  circumstances, 
he  wondered  at  and  envied  the  imperturbable 
self-control  that  a  woman  of  the  world  can  main- 
tain when  she  is  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
most  delicate  situation. 

At  the  breakfast  table  Annette  gaily  scolded 
her  husband  for  not  having  returned  in  time  for 
the  Fossombrone  ball,  as  he  had  promised  he 
would  do.  She  gave  him  a  comic  description  of 
the  festivities  which  he  had  missed,  and  rallied 
Scharf  upon  his  mysterious  appearance  in  a 
Venetian  domino.  Thanks  to  her  rattle,  Bernard's 
silence  passed  unnoticed.  As  they  left  the  table, 
M.  Volonzoff  amicably  took  the  young  man's 
arm  and  carried  him  off  to  talk  about  his  son. 

"  I  might  have  got  home  yesterday,"  said  he, 
"  if  I  had  not  stopped  at  Dresden  to  see  a  spe- 


Expiation,  159 


cialist  whom  Scharf  is  in  correspondence  with. 
All  that  can  be  done  now  is  to  let  nature  take  her 
course.  That  is  the  ultimatum  which  I  bring 
home  with  me,  and  a  discouraging  one  it  is  too, 
isn't  it  ?  For  it  is  a  declaration  from  the  most 
skilful  doctors  that  they  can  do  nothing  further 
in  the  case.  Well,  in  spite  of  all  that,  when  I  saw 
my  poor  boy  again,  I  regained  a  little  of  my  con- 
fidence. Perhaps  there  is  no  progress  visible  to 
you,  who  have  been  constantly  at  his  side,  but  it 
is  different  with  me  after  having  been  away  two 
months.  He  is  better,  and  we  are  indebted  to 
you  for  it.  You  have  done  for  him  what  no  one 
else  has  succeeded  in  doing,  and  how  he  feels  it ! 
How  he  speaks  of  you  !  Really  I  ought  to  be 
jealous  ! " 

This  last  word,  perhaps  the  only  one  that  had 
reached  Bernard's  ear,  engrossed,  as  he  was,  in 
other  thoughts,  caused  him  to  start ;  he  thought 
that  his  secret  was  discovered,  and  yet  he  dis- 
played a  kind  of  unconcern  in  arriving  at  a  reso- 
lution as  to  his  course.  "  In  such  a  case  as  this," 
he  said  to  himself,  "  a  duel  generally  follows.  It 
will  be  better  to  die  thus  for  her  than  to  live  a 
long  life."  Suddenly  the  thought  of  his  inferior, 
dependent  position  struck  him  like  the  sharp  lash 


i6o  Expiation, 


of  a  whip  across  the  face.  "  Would  he  fight  me?" 
The  prospect  that  he  would  be  discharged 
seemed  much  more  probable,  and  all  the  galling 
pride  that  was  in  him  filled  him  with  hatred  for 
the  man  who,  but  a  moment  ago,  had  been  tell- 
ing him  of  his  gratitude  and  his  friendship. 


Expiation,  i6i 


IX. 


LITTLE  after  this  time  Bernard 
broke  the  last  link  that  connected 
him  with  the  past  by  writing  Mad- 
ame Desaubiers  a  letter,  which  he  could  never 
read  in  after  days  without  a  feeling  of  shame. 
The  letter  was  long,  but  was  written  in  vague 
terms.  He  thanked  her  for  the  advice  which  she 
had  given  him  and  gave  her  credit  for  its  wis- 
dom ;  she  had  surely  done  well  in  dissuading 
him  from  one  of  those  premature  engagements 
to  which  young  people  sacrifice  their  freedom 
before  they  have  a  chance  to  enjoy  this 
most  precious  of  all  gifts.  Experience  alone 
enables  us  to  read  our  own  heart  clearly,  and 
to  distinguish  between  friendship  and  real  love. 
If,  before  his  departure,  he  had  asked  Rose 
for  her  hand,  the  idea  of  recalling  his  promise 
would  never  have  occurred  to  him,  but  as  no 
such  demand  had  been  expressed  in  words,  he 


i62  Expiation, 


trusted  that  sisterly  affection  would  succeed 
those  dreams  which  had  doubtless  deluded  him 
alone,  as  Rose  had  never  admitted  that  there 
was  any  hope  of  their  realization. 

Bernard's  pen  travelled  more  slowly  here,  for 
through  this  oblivion  of  the  past  that  was  in- 
vading his  faculties  more  and  more  every  day, 
he  seemed  to  hear  the  echo  of  his  own  words, 
spoken  by  the  side  of  the  Seine  :  "  In  all  the 
world  I  shall  find  nothing  so  dear  as  what  I 
am  leaving  here — I  shall  return  to  you."  But 
then  the  pain  of  separation  is  responsible  for 
many  a  silly  speech.  He  had  loved  Rose,  and 
he  loved  her  now,  but  not  in  a  way  to  conflict 
with  a  passion  that  was  stronger  than  his  will. 
Was  not  this  convincing  proof  that  he  had  made 
a  blunder  when  he  ceased  to  look  upon  her  as 
a  sister?  Fortified  by  this  reasoning,  he  took 
up  his  pen  again,  for  although  he  could  not 
admit  that  there  was  any  formal  betrothal  be- 
tween himself  and  Rose,  he  was  anxious  to 
avoid  any  misunderstanding.  The  language, 
the  letters  of  this  child  had  been  those  of  a 
friend,  but  what  could  he  say  about  the  gift  of 
her  portrait,  or  the  remembrance  of  her  tears  ? 
He  knew  that  her  loyalty  was  sufficient  to  make 


Expiation.  163 


her  reject  any  proposition  of  marriage  if  she 
had  reason  to  fear  that  it  would  bring  to  him 
any  tinge  of  grief  or  disappointment ;  it  would 
be  better  that  she  should  know  the  change 
that  had  been  wrought  in  him  by  time,  by  the 
course  of  events,  above  all  by  his  own  reflec- 
tions, and  Madame  Desaubiers  was  the  only  one 
to  whom  could  be  entrusted  so  delicate  a  mis- 
sion. 

To  make  his  bad  action  easier  for  him,  Ber- 
nard heaped  falsehoods  on  the  top  of  sopliisms; 
th-*  letter  was  burned  and  rewritten  several 
times  before  he  was  satisfied  with  it.  He  was 
angry  with  himself,  and  consequently  hard  and 
unjust.  What  was  the  use  of  all  this  consider- 
ation ?  She,  too,  must  have  mistaken  the  nature 
of  her  feelings  toward  him.  Love  was  the  in- 
toxication which  he  drank  in  at  Annette's  eyes, 
that  irresistible  force  which  brought  them 
together  in  spite  of  everything.  Rose  did  not 
love  him  so  much  as  she  loved  her  mother,  so 
much  as  she  loved  her  art ;  he  knew  that  she 
was  too  strong  and  self-contained  to  suffer  long 
or  deeply.  In  a  word,  she  was  an  obstacle  that 
was  to  be  avoided  or  destroyed  by  calumny,  in 
order  that  he  might  be  spared  remorse. 


164  Expiation, 


He  felt  a  sense  of  relief  when  he  had  got  his 
letter  off,  and  when  he  next  saw  Annette  experi- 
enced tumultuous  delight  in  telling  her  that  he 
was  hers  alone.  It  was  hardly  necessary  for 
him  to  say  so  in  words,  his  actions  proved  it  so 
well.  Only  virgin  hearts  are  capable  of  such  a 
passion,  that  blazes  up  in  a  day  and  consumes 
everything  outside  of  itself.  Annette  had  suffi- 
cient experience  to  understand  it,  and  showed 
great  relish  for  a  romance  the  like  of  which  she 
had  never  read  before.  That  she  might  enjoy  it 
at  her  ease  and  lose  no  portion  of  it,  she  now 
employed  every  device  that  she  liad  formerly 
used  in  awakening  his  love  in  restraining  it 
within  sentimental  and  platonic  limits.  She  used 
her  boundless  power  over  him  to  prolong  the 
timid  ecstasies  of  a  pure  love.  The  sweet  pre- 
cocious Italian  spring-time  was  also  favorable  to 
this  project.  Over  the  distant  palaces  of  Genoa 
were  spread  the  beautiful  transparent  tints  of 
azure  and  pink  that  are  reflected  to  and  fro  from 
sea  and  sky  ;  the  mountain  ranges  rose  from  the 
opal  waters  of  the  gulf,  forming  a  girdle  for  the 
prospect  whose  minutest  indentation  the  purity 
of  the  atmosphere  made  visible  at  great  distance; 
the  fresh  verdure  of  the  gardens,  where  the  loves 


Expiation,  165 


of  Albano  might  have  dwelt,  was  variegated  by 
the  most  beautiful  flowers.  The  surroundings 
and  the  season  could  not  have  been  more  favor- 
able for  an  idyl.  Their  interviews,  though  inno- 
cent, were  attended  with  precaution,  for  mystery 
and  the  dramatic  element  were  dear  to  Annette's 
heart.  Possibly  this  prudence  was  not  altogether 
assumed,  perhaps  it  had  become  really  necessary. 
M.  Volonzoff's  surprise  at  this  new-born  liking 
of  hers  for  a  quiet  life  exceeded  that  which  any 
of  her  previous  caprices  had  ever  aroused  in 
him  ;  this  conversion  appeared  to  him  more  dan- 
gerous than  the  various  mad  fancies  that  he  had 
so  long  been  acquainted  with.  The  Count  had 
not  a  very  favorable  opinion  of  women  ;  he 
thought  that  the  Orientals  did  very  wisely  in 
keeping  them  under  lock  and  key,  but  in  the  ab- 
sence of  a  barred  and  grated  harem,  it  was  his 
opinion  that  a  numerous  troop  of  admirers  served 
as  well  as  anything  else  for  a  guard.  But  his 
Celimene  had  abdicated  ;  her  court,  upon  the 
vigilance  of  which  he  had  relied,  had  been  dis- 
missed ;  it  appeared  to  him  to  be  a  bad  sign. 
Henceforth  Bernard  felt  that  he  was  watched. 
He  could  not  indulge  in  the  reveries  and  abstrac- 
tions that  lovers  are  so  addicted  to  without  being 


1 66  Expiation, 


conscious  of  a  penetrating  gaze  fixed  upon  him, 
accompanied  by  a  kind  of  scrutinizing  pity.  The 
doctor,  too,  kept  his  eye  on  him  pretty  faithfully, 
and  his  attitude  expressed  distrust,  almost  open 
hostility. 

One  evening,  when  M.  Volonzoff  had  gone  to 
Genoa  to  dine  with  Fossombrone,  leaving  his 
wife  at  home  suffering  with  a  pretended  head- 
ache, she  thought  that  she  recognized  Scharf  in 
a  dark  form  that  flitted  rapidly  beneath  the  bal- 
cony where  she  was  sitting,  not  alone.  He  had 
withdrawn  a  few  minutes  before,  under  the  pre- 
tence of  some  work  that  had  to  be  done  ;  tlien 
Annette  had  left  her  piano  to  come  and  sit  by 
Bernard  and  look  at  the  stars,  discoursing  the 
while,  in  a  voice  full  of  promises  for  the  future, 
upon  the  folly  of  squandering  one's  happiness 
too  rapidly,  there  being  possibly  more  pleasure 
in  anticipation  than  in  possession.  The  Count- 
ess was  now  and  then  pleased  to  embroil  herself 
in  far-fetched  paradoxes  and  subtleties  that 
would  have  been  worthy  of  Scud^ry.  Suddenly 
she  exclaimed  :  "  There  is  some  one  listening  !  " 
and  closed  the  window,  while  Bernard,  without 
the  loss  of  a  second,  hurriedly  mounted  the 
stairs  to  the  Doctor's  room,  where  he  found  that 


Expiation.  167 


gentleman  deep  among  his  books.  On  his  return 
to  the  drawing-room,  he  found  M.  Volonzoff 
there,  chatting  pleasantly. 

This  immovable  calmness  and  good  humor  was 
humiliating  to  Bernard.  Had  there  been  a  danger 
to  meet,  it  would  have  quieted  his  conscience 
and  would  even  perhaps  have  been  an  additional 
inducement  for  him  to  persevere,  but  thus  to 
betray  with  impunity  a  man  whose  guest  he  was, 
and  who  was  his  friend,  was  one  of  those  coward- 
ly actions  to  which  youth,  generous  even  in  the 
midst  of  its  follies,  can  never  resign  itself  with- 
out a  feeling  of  shame.  Still,  his  letter  to  Mad- 
ame D^saubiers  had  in  a  measure  checked  this 
feeling,  for  even  if  he  were  guilty,  he  had  re- 
deemed his  fault,  in  this  quarter  at  least,  by  his 
frankness.  Her  answer  to  his  letter  came  at 
last ;  he  had  dreaded  it,  while  he  anxiously 
awaited  it.     It  struck  him  like  a  thunderbolt. 

"  The  painful  charge  which  you  place  in  my 
hands  to  execute,  my  child,  is  useless.  Rose  was 
aware  before  you  were  that  you  love  her  no  more. 
For  a  long  time  I  have  seen  the  tears  gather  in 
her  eyes  whenever  she  speaks  of  your  future,  and 
resolutely  parts  it  from  her  own.  Remember 
that  we  have  always  read  your  letters  together. 


1 68  Expiation. 


We  have  seen  their  tone  gradually  change,  with- 
out your  being  conscious  of  it,  perhaps.  With- 
out speaking  of  it  to  each  other,  we  found  in 
them  something  more  than  you  thought  you  had 
written.  Rose  was  the  first  to  discover  the  truth 
concealed  under  your  reticence,  for  she  loves  ycu 
as  no  one  will  ever  love  you  again.  Deny  every- 
thing, if  you  will,  but  do  not  deny  her  love,  even 
if  it  has  become  a  burden  to  you,  and  above  all,  be- 
ware of  attempting  to  convince  the  poor  girl  that 
you  were  the  victim  of  an  illusion,  when  you  ap- 
peared to  share  it.  She  will  suffer  less,  thinking 
you  faithless.  Do  not  tell  her  that  you  wish  to 
give  her  back  her  liberty  ;  the  changes  of  her  heart 
are  not  for  you  to  control  ;  moreover,  she  does  not 
complain,  and  she  accuses  no  one.  Neither  will 
I  weary  you  with  reproaches  or  advice.  My 
letter  has  another  object,  entirely  foreign  to  Rose. 
"I  have  to  ask  your  forgiveness.  Perhaps 
with  the  best  intentions  of  doing  good,  I  shall 
have  only  succeeded  in  doing  you  an  injury. 
Bernard,  if  I  had  said  to  you,  when  a  chance 
that  seemed  to  me  providential  so  unexpectedly 
decided  your  future  :  '  You  will  live  beneath 
the  roof  of  your  own  father,  you  will  meet  him 
in  your  daily  intercourse,'  would  you  have  ac- 


Expiation,  169 


cepted  that  dependent  position  with  Count 
Volonzoff?  The  feeling  of  uncertainty  which 
has  beset  me  since  I  sent  you  away  has  become 
a  burthen  too  heavy  for  endurance.  At  first 
I  flattered  myself  that  my  inspiration  to  be  silent 
was  a  good  one  :  God  had  decreed  that  you 
should  come  together ;  unconsciously  to  you 
both,  blood  would  speak,  in  him  as  well  as  in 
you,  and  nature  would  assert  her  rights.  So 
ready  are  we  to  believe  that  which  we  desire  ! 

"  Again,  pardon  me  !  I  know  not  what  feeling 
of  dread  suddenly  came  and  mingled  with  these 
hopes  and  gained  the  upper  hand,  with  all  the 
strength  of  a  presentment.  Perhaps  I  ought  to 
continue  silent ;  but  I  cannot ;  I  should  seem 
to  be  an  accomplice  in  a  crime.  It  is  not 
always  easy,  my  child,  to  know  the  right.  We 
lose  our  guiding  star  when  we  have  once  de- 
parted from  the  way  of  truth.  With  bitter  re- 
pentance I  acknowledge  this,  and  I  tender  you, 
by  my  tardy  confession,  the  only  assistance  that 
I  have  it  in  my  power  to  give  you.  God  grant 
that  it  may  be  the  means  of  showing  you  the 
right  way,  and  may  this  way  bring  you  back  to 
us !  " 


I70  Expiation, 


X. 


N  the  garden  of  the  villa,  as  in  most 
Italian  gardens,  there  were  several 
buildings,  each  designated  by  some 
high-sounding  name  :  there  was  Erminia's  cave, 
Angelica's  rock,  the  tomb  of  the  Guelf,  etc.; 
then  in  the  centre  of  a  verdant  plot,  where  sev- 
eral walks  converged,  there  was  a  dilapidated, 
moss-covered  pavilion  of  rock-work  which  had 
long  been  condemned  to  disuse  on  account  of 
its  evil  antecedents.  The  country  people  called 
it  the  Chamber  of  Love,  and  made  a  kind  of 
little  Tour-de-Nesle  of  it ;  insisting  that  the 
ghosts  of  the  numerous  lovers  of  a  certain 
Princess  Livia,  who  had  had  it  built  for  her  own 
private  use,  sometimes  came  and  walked  there 
at  night.  There  were  not  many  persons  who 
had  ever  seen  the  interior  of  this  little  house. 
Madame  Volonzoff  had  taken  the  key  under 
pretence  of  seeing  if  it  could  not  be  converted 


Expiation.  17 1 


into  a  summer  house,  but  subsequently  seemed 
to  have  abandoned  her  project.  Still,  on  the 
day  when  she  took  it  into  her  head  to  receive 
Bernard  there,  the  old  boudoir  presented  quite 
a  gay  appearance  with  its  tarnished  mirrors,  its 
crumbling  cornices,  and  its  figured,  rat-eaten 
tapestries.  Seated  in  the  dim  light  that  filtered 
through  the  lowered  blinds,  somewhat  pale,  as 
is  fitting  when  one  acknowledges  one's  self 
conquered  (it  was  the  first  serious  appointment 
that  she  had  accorded  Bernard,  and  the  probable 
end  of  the  Platonic  chapter),  Annette,  to  judge 
by  the  portrait  of  a  powdered  nymph  who  had 
long  been  subject  to  the  ravages  of  dust  and 
damp,  was  more  irresistible  than  the  Countess 
Livia  had  ever  been.  Her  morning  dress  of 
lace  and  muslin  was  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  scene  and  the  situation.  At  the  sound  of  a 
footstep  in  the  distance,  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  her  heart.   "  I  really  love  him  !  "  said  she. 

The  shutters  were  tightly  closed  and  there 
was  nothing  to  indicate  from  the  outside  that 
there  was  any  one  in  the  pavilion.  Annette  had 
guarded  against  every  contingency,  and  there 
was  nothing  to  fear  ;  still  she  trembled,  a  chill 
passed   through  her,  she  was  more  dead   than 


172  Expiation. 


alive.  These  sensations,  so  different  from  the 
comedy  of  coquetry  in  which  she  had  been  pre- 
eminent until  now,  affected  her  with  a  singular 
trouble  and  made  her  still  more  beautiful. 

"  You    let   me   wait already  !  "    said    she, 

with  a  smile  which,  the  day  before,  would  have 
brought  him  to  her  feet.  He  knelt,  in  fact,  but 
more  like  a  condemned  man  suing  for  mercy 
than  a  happy  lover.  His  features  showed  such 
change  that  she  cried  :  "What  is  the  matter? 
You  frighten  me."  Then  with  the  incoherence 
of  despair,  he  stammered  that  he  was  unworthy 
of  her,  that  he  prayed  she  would  forget  his 
boldness,  that  honor  commanded  him  to  fly, 
that  he  appeared  in  her  presence  for  the  last 
time,  that  he  would  die  rather  than  carry  her 
down  with  him  into  such  a  foul  abyss.  At  first 
Annette  was  disposed  to  pity  this  madness. 
"  The  poor  child,"  she  thought,  "  is  out  of  his 
head  ;  his  happiness  has  proved  too  much  for 
him  ;  "  and  half  in  joke  and  half  in  earnest,  she 
tried  to  reassure  him  ;  but  when  he  mentioned 
her  husband,  she  said,  drawing  herself  up  haught- 
ily, "I  did  not  suppose  that  you  were  here 
to  talk  about  him.  Again  I  ask  you,  what  has 
happened  since  yesterday  ?  " 


Expiation,  173 


This  was  the  only  question  that  he  could  not 
answer.  Determined  to  keep  his  secret,  un- 
nerved by  his  tortures,  the  bitterest  of  which  at 
the  moment  was  the  sense  that  he  had  made  him- 
self supremely  ridiculous,  he  talked  without 
knowing  what  he  was  saying,  unable  even  to  rec- 
ognize the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  until  at  last  the 
Countess,  passing  by  him  with  an  air  of  disdain, 
cast  at  him  from  the  door  these  crushing  words, 
accompanied  by  a  low,  cutting,  scornful  laugh  : 

"  It  is  very  evident.  Monsieur,  that  you  have 
been  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  theological 
school.  You  have  been  preaching  me  a  sermon; 
you  forget  that  sermons  are  not  to  my  taste,  es- 
pecially when  the  time  is  so  ill-chosen." 

She  turned  and  left  him,  swift  as  an  arrow, 
grazing  the  long  laurel  hedge  as  she  went.  But 
she  lessened  her  speed  and  looked  back,  waiting 
for  him  to  follov/  her.  But  no;  the  path  was 
silent  and  deserted.  Suddenly  she  stopped  and 
listened,  with  laboring  breath,  tempted  on  the 
one  hand  to  return  to  the  pavilion,  on  the  other, 
restrained  by  a  last  remnant  of  pride.  There 
are  some  women  who  can  never  bring  themselves 
to  admit  that  a  man,  whatever  he  may  be,  can 
resist  or  escape  them. 


174  Expiation, 


Madame  Volonzoff' s  attention  had  first  been 
attracted  toward  Bernard  by  his  extreme  reserve 
and  by  the  chilling  disapprobation  of  her  which 
was  frequently  visible  in  his  manner.  She  had 
next  amused  herself,  there  being  no  more  excit- 
ing pastime  at  hand,  by  trying  to  bedevil  his 
senses,  and  the  mischief  that  she  had  hatched  for 
him  recoiled  upon  herself,  without,  however, 
taking  full  possession  of  her.  When,  contrary  to 
all  probability,  he  would  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  her  and  repulsed  her  advances,  she  at  last 
felt  how  much  he  was  to  her. 

Was  this  love  story,  then,  whose  incidents  she 
had  controlled  with  such  art,  in  expectation  of  a 
very  different  termination,  to  wind  up  with  a 
simple  adieu,  supplemented  with  a  lesson  in  mo- 
rality ?  She  allowed  her  clenched  hands  to  fall 
to  her  side  upon  her  dress,  and  there  they  found 
the  traces  of  Bernard's  tears.  "  He  was  crying ! " 
she  said  to  herself.  "  I  was  too  quick  in  my 
anger.  These  fears  are  childish,  but  they  are 
touching  ;  they  always  exist  in  company  with  a 
fresh,  tender,  submissive  love,  a  first  love,  in  a 
word.  I  failed  to  understand  him."  Annette 
continued  with  fresh  anger,  this  time  directed 
against  herself,  "  But  he  will  come  back  to  me, 


Expiation.  175 


and  the  quicker  that  I  shall  use  no  means  to 
bring  him  back." 

The  fear  that  he  should  not  find  her  there  with 
his  pardon  all  ready  and  awaiting  him,  made  her 
press  on  more  quickly.  She  wished  him  to  think 
that  she  was  angry  with  him.  "  Who  wouldn't 
have  been  ?  "  She  was  ashamed  of  her  weakness. 

As  she  entered  the  house  she  came  upon  her 
husband,  talking  with  Doctor  Scharf.  He  seemed 
troubled  and  anxious. 

"Well!"  said  he  impulsively,  '' you  know  that 
Bernard  is  going  to  leave  us  ?" 

Annette  felt  her  knees  giving  way  under  her  ; 
not  daring  to  trust  her  voice  in  reply,  she  fell  into 
the  nearest  chair. 

"  You  are  as  much  astonished  as  I  was  myself," 
continued  M.  Volonzoff.  "  This  morning  he  told 
me  that  necessity  compelled  him  to  return  to 
France  at  once.  I  tried  vainly  to  make  him  tell  me 
why  ;  he  is  impenetrable.  I  wanted  him  at  least  to 
give  me  his  promise  to  return,  for  I  dread  Dima's 
grief.  The  child  has  had  more  fever  the  last  few 
days.  I  was  just  talking  to  the  Doctor  about  it. 
It  is  really  a  great  annoyance." 

"  Is  there  no  way  of  keeping  him  ?  Money 
changes  so  many  plans,"  Scharf  insinuated. 


176  Expiation, 


"  You  are  not  a  good  judge  of  men.  Our 
friend's  disinterestedness  is  above  all  suspicion. 
If  he  says  that  he  cannot  even  grant  us  a  respite, 
there  are  doubtless  motives  that  we  must  respect, 
much  as  we  regret  that  they  should  exist.  An- 
nette," the  Count  continued  without  raising  his 
eyes,  "  have  you  any  idea  of  the  cause  of  this 
departure  ? " 

Her  only  answer  was  a  gesture  in  the  negative. 

"No  one  knows  anything  of  M.  Bernard," 
said  the  Doctor,  "  either  from  whence  he  comes 
or  whither  he  is  going." 

"  Oh  !  it  is  very  well  known  that  you  have 
always  looked  upon  him  as  a  rival,"  drily  replied 
the  Count.  And  he  commenced  to  silently  per- 
ambulate the  room,  as  was  his  habit  whenever  he 
was  trying  to  overcome  his  anger  or  mature  some 
plan.  He  was  angry  with  womankind  in  general 
and  with  his  own  wife  in  particular.  He  thought 
that  Bernard  was  doubtless  flying  of  his  own  ac- 
cord from  a  foolish  passion  which  he  knew  there 
was  no  hope  of  being  returned  ;  he  cared  noth- 
ing for  the  love  episode,  but  why  must  Dima  be 
made  to  suffer  ? 

In  the  meantime  rapid  glances  Aad  been  ex- 
changed between  Annette  and  the  Doctor,  which 


Expiation,  177 


signified  on  the  one  side,  "  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you,"  and  on  the  other  "  I  am  at  your  dis- 
posal." After  one  more  turn  from  the  fireplace 
to  the  door,  Mr.  Volonzoff  left  the  room  without 
having  devised  any  remedy  for  the  trouble  which 
he  thought  he  now  had  a  clear  idea  of,  although 
it  seemed  to  him  of  very  small  importance. 

**  Doctor,"  the  Countess  then  said  with  forced 
calmness,  "  what  do  you  think  of  all  this  ? " 

'*  What !  about  the  tutor  ?  I  think  that  the 
lady  who  is  awaiting  him  down  yonder,  mistress 
or  betrothed,  or  whatever  she  may  be,  is  becom- 
ing impatient,  that  she  wants  to  see  him  again, 
and  that  he  is  obedient  to  orders.  His  love  for 
her  is   stronger   than  his  pretended  attachment 


"You  have  already  mentioned  this  woman 
more  than  once,"  Annette  interrupted,  and  her 
eyes  all  at  once  assumed  a  greenish  hue  and 
emitted  feline  glances  that  augured  ill  for  some- 
body.    The  Doctor  made  a  sign  of  assent. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  how  you  could  have  been 
deceived  so,  for  there  is  no  such  woman  in  ex- 
istence." 

"  Ah  !  he  told  you  so,  did  he,  and  you  believed 
him  ?     You  believed  him  in  preference  to  me?" 


178  Expiation, 


"  You  did  not  give  me  any  proof." 

"  Because  I  could  not  have  supposed  that  the 
love  affairs  of  an  inferior  would  interest  you." 

'*I  would  not  say  that  they  interest  me;  that 
is  too  strong  an  expression;  but  I  am  curious. 
This  sudden  departure  perplexes  me." 

"  Still  there  can  be  nothing  plainer  ;  he  spoke 
to  the  Count  after  the  arrival  of  the  postman, 
who  brought  him  a  letter." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?  Pshaw!  a  letter  from  his 
family,  probably." 

"  You  know  that  he  has  no  family.  That  is 
all  that  our  mysterious  young  friend  has  conde- 
scended to  tell  us  about  his  affairs." 

"  But  perhaps  he  has  a  gentleman  friend  who 
writes  to  him." 

"  Is  it  probable,  Madame,  that  he  would  keep 
such  letters  under  lock  and  key,  tied  up  with 
ribbon,  and  in  company  with  a  likeness,  a  tress 
of  hair  and  pressed  flowers  ?  " 

"Have  you  seen  all  that  ?" 

"  And  then  I  can  assure  you  that  this  friend 
has  magnificent  eyes — in  a  word  just  as  like  a 
young  lady  of  eighteen  as  you  can  imagine." 

The  Countess  gave  a  little  shrug  of  her 
shoulders.      To   a   casual   observer   she  would 


f  ^"  OF 

tlVERSITY 

OF 


Expiation,  179 


have  appeared  incredulous  and  indifferent,  but 
it  was  not  easy  to  deceive  Doctor  Scharf.  Be- 
neath that  palpitating  breast  there  was  a  raging 
storm  of  outraged  pride,  rage,  jealousy,  and  a 
burning  thirst  for  vengeance.  So  he  had  dared 
to  lie  to  her  !  While  sitting  by  her  side,  his 
thoughts  had  been  with  another,  and  this  person, 
some  Parisian  grisette,  no  doubt,  thougli  far 
away,  had  worsted  her  in  the  conflict  and  was 
about  to  deprive  her  of  her  prey ! 

"  Of  course,  it  doesn't  matter  much  to  you," 
continued  Scharf,  "but  you  doubted  my  veracity 
once  because  I  could  not  produce  my  proofs.  I 
should  like  to  show  you  that  I  am  right.  Would 
you  like  to  see  these  proofs  ?  " 

The  Countess,  in  her  eagerness,  stretched  forth 
her  hand,  but  disguised  the  involuntary  move- 
ment by  taking  her  fan  from  a  table  that  stood 
near.  "I  don't  believe  that  you  can  produce 
them,"  said  she.  Her  lips,  to  which  she  sum- 
moned a  forced  smile,  were  pale  and  trembling. 
Scharf  drew  near  and  stood  before  her,  looking 
her  in  the  eyes. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  "  to  satisfy  a  desire  of 
yours,  I  would  dare  anything."  She  drew  back 
her  chair,  disconcerted  by  the  brutal  intentness 


I  So  Expiation. 


of  his  gaze.  "  I  am  yours,  body  and  soul.  I 
have  no  doubt  that  you  are  well  aware  of  this, 
although  I  have  never  said  so  in  words.  I  am 
no  longer  satisfied  to  be  counted  as  one  among 
the  throng  of  your  adorers,  and  that,  too,  in  the 
rear  rank — to  stoop  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  of  love 
that  you  condescend  to  scatter  around  you.  I 
was  never  cut  out  for  the  Angelic  r61e;  that  is 
too  suitable  to  beardless  young  Frenchmen.  It 
is  my  ambition  to  leave  you  something  that  will 
make  you  remember  me,  even  if  it  be  at  the 
price  of  my  life,  and  in  exchange  to  receive  from 
you  a  favor  that  you  have  never  granted  to 
any  one." 

"  A  favor  for  a  service  ;  what  you  propose 
seems  to  me  very  like  a  bargain,"  said  the 
Countess  with  disdain. 

"  Everything  in  this  world  is  a  matter  of 
purchase  and  sale,  Madame.  I  cannot  endure 
to  be  a  dupe.  Reflect,  that  theft  will  have  to  be 
committed  here.  I  spoke  of  my  life  ;  I  would 
risk  even  more  than  that  at  a  word  from  you. 
Are  you  unwilling,  in  return,  to  run  the  risk  of 
compromising  yourself  ?  This  evening,  this 
very  night,  at  an  hour  that  we  shall  agree  on, 
I  will  bring  you,  or  rather  you  shall   come   and 


Expiation.  i8i 


demand  from  me,  the  proofs  which  will  clear  up 
every  doubt  in  regard  to  what  you  desire  to 
know.  I  have  in  my  mind  that  lonely  pavilion, 
the  Chamber  of  Love,  as  it  is  called,  among  the 
trees  of  the  park." 

"  I  fail  to  see  the  use  of  such  romantic  pre- 
paration." 

"  Pardon,  Madame,  it  is  to  be  all  my  recom- 
pense. Let  your  accomplice  bear  away  with 
him  the  illusion  of  having  been  once  received 
as  your  lover." 

The  Countess  had  listened  to  this  strange 
speech,  swayed  by  the  magnetism  of  an  overpow- 
ering will  which  seemed  to  stupefy  her.  As 
Scharf  finished,  she  raised  her  eyes  and  was  ter- 
rified by  the  expression  which  she  read  in  his 
face,  from  which  he  had  let  fall  the  mask  that 
habitually  concealed  it. 

"  To-morrow,  perhaps,  he  will  be  gone,  and 
you  will  never  learn  what  you  want  to  know.  Do 
you  accept  my  offer,  or  do  you  refuse  to  trust 
me,  and  my  respect  for  you  ? " 

She  hesitated  ;  then  in  a  voice  that  betrayed 
deep  agitation  and  at  the  same  time  expressed  an 
undefined  threat,  she  said  :  "  Let  it  be  as  you 
will." 


1 82  Expiation. 


XI. 


O  any  one  who  could  have  read  the 
minds  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  villa 
there  would  have  been  an  exhibition 
of  the  most  conflicting  passions.  Annette's 
wounded  susceptibilities,  in  connection  with  her 
burning  curiosity,  had  displaced  the  mistrust 
with  which  she  had  at  first  regarded  the  Doctor's 
impudent  offer.  Women  who  consider  nothing 
in  the  world  but  themselves  and  their  passing 
fancies  always  go  straight  to  their  end,  using 
every  available  means,  disregarding  every  risk. 
Scharf  was,  in  her  eyes,  the  tool  that  is  to  be 
broken  after  it  has  been  used  ;  perhaps  he  was 
a  more  formidable  instrument  than  it  suited  her 
to  believe.  It  was  the  first  time  that  this  man 
had  given  free  rein  to  instincts  of  the  strength  of 
which  he  was  himself  ignorant.  For  three  long 
years  he  had  subordinated  them  with  stern  inflex- 
ibility to  calculations  that  were  more  important  to 


Expiation.  183 


him  than  anything  else — to  the  task  of  building 
up  his  fortune.  Fdr  three  years  the  Countess 
had  been  to  him  as  the  star  is  to  the  child  who 
would  seize  it  in  his  grasp,  set  high  in  the  heavens 
at  an  immeasurable  distance  beyond  his  reach. 
But  when  he  saw  her  descend  from  the  firmament 
where  she  gravitated  in  company  with  her  satel- 
lites, Russian  generals  and  Italian  princes,  to 
throw  herself  into  the  arms  of  a  little  French 
tutor,  he  made  oath  to  himslf  that  he  would  at 
least  stand  on  as  good  footing  as  this  contempt- 
ible rival.  When  he  burned  his  ships,  it  was 
with  a  kind  of  rage  against  himself  and  against 
her  who  had  thus  made  him  recreant  to  the 
principles  of  his  whole  life  ;  but  it  behooved  him 
to  see  that  the  ships  were  not  burned  without 
something  to  show  for  it.  The  Doctor's  plan 
embraced  three  objects  :  Revenge  on  Bernard, 
whom  he  was  jealous  of  ;  also  on  M.  Volonzoff, 
who  had  so  often  wounded  his  personal  pride 
and  patriotic  susceptibilities  ;  finally  to  retaliate 
on  a  coquette,  from  whose  influence  he  could  not 
abstract  himself,  while  at  the  same  time  he  held 
her  in  detestation.  He  felt  assured  that  this 
libertine  Frenchman  had  been  carrying  on  two 
love  affairs  at  once  ;  he  knew  where  to  find  the 


184  Expiation. 


documents  that  would  denounce  him,  and  he 
trusted  to  the  Countess'  indignation  at  sight  of 
them,  to  darkness  and  solitude,  to  his  own  elo- 
quence, to  other  and  more  decisive  arguments  if 
they  had  to  be  used,  to  gain  for  him  the  reward 
of  his  stratagem.  This  euphemistic  way  of  put- 
ting it  sufficed  to  quiet  the  hypocrite's  not  very 
troublesome  conscience. 

It  was  an  easy  matter  to  get  possession  of  the 
casket  of  letters,  for  Bernard  was  devoting  his 
entire  evening  to  his  pupil,  whom  he  now  in  his 
mind  called  brother,  and  who  now  seemed  to 
have  a  closer  claim  than  ever  upon  his  tenderest 
attentions,  although  he  knew  that  he  should  have 
to  leave  him  before  long.  The  effect  of  Madame 
Desaubiers'  revelation  had  been  like  that  of  an 
alarm-cry  sounded  in  the  ears  of  a  man  sleeping 
on  the  verge  of  a  precipice  and  awakening  him 
from  some  intoxicating  dream.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  banish  his  criminal  passion  ;  he  was  filled 
with  horror  at  the  nearness  of  the  danger  he  had 
escaped.  He  could  not  forget  Annette  quite  yet, 
but  neither  could  he  forget  that  she  was  his 
father's  wife.  His  father  !  How  often  had  he 
dreamed  of  finding  him  and  making  himself 
known  to  him  by  some  heroic  action  !      He  had 


Expiation,  185 


accomplished  a  noble  deed,  it  is  true,  but  silent- 
ly and  in  the  dark  ;  there  was  no  apparent  merit, 
and  there  could  be  no  possible  reward.  It  was 
to  be  followed,  too,  by  another,  no  less  incom- 
prehensible and  almost  equally  painful,  the  part- 
ing with  Dima.  Twenty  times  did  Bernard's 
lips  part  to  say  the  word  Farewell^  and  each 
time  the  word  was  arrested  on  his  tongue  by 
some  fond  word  from  the  poor  child.  Besides 
the  feverish  little  hand  which  clasped  his  own 
interceded  more  powerfully  than  the  most  touch- 
ing speech  could  have  done ;  it  seemed  to  say  : 

"  I  shall  not  have  many  favors  to  ask  from  you. 
Do  not  rob  me  of  a  single  one  of  the  minutes 
that  you  can  pass  at  my  bedside,  which  are  now 
so  few.  Let  the  sunshine  which  your  presence 
has  always  brought  to  me  continue  to  irradiate 
what  little  remains  to  me  of  life.  When  you  are 
gone,  what  will  become  of  me  ?  Suppose  that  I 
should  die  while  calling  upon  you,  reproaching 
you  with  your  forgetfulness  ?  Could  you  ever 
pardon  yourself  for  my  death,  which  would  be 
so  sad  without  you  at  my  side,  which  would  be 
so  sweet  and  resigned  if  only  you  would  let  it  be 
so?" 

These  were  the  words  that  Bernard  heard  in 


1 86  Expiation. 


imagination,  and  passing  his  arm  around  the 
child  as  if  to  protect  him,  he  could  only  murmur 
in  his  ear,  "My  child!  My  poor  child!  " — so  that 
Dima  went  to  sleep  without  having  learned  of 
his  instructor's  intended  departure  on  the  follow- 
ing day. 

"  Were  it  not  for  seeing  her  again,"  he  thought 
with  a  shudder,  "  I  would  remain  another  day. 
I  may  have  more  courage  to-morrow,  or  perhaps 
he  will  be  stronger  and  better  able  to  bear  the 
parting." 

M.  Volonzoff  was  greatly  agitated.  After  a 
close  examination  of  the  motives  which  could 
have  induced  Bernard's  sudden  resolution,  he  had 
abandoned  his  first  conjectures.  He  had  no 
doubt  that  the  young  man  was  in  love,  but  was 
it  despair  that  had  influenced  him  to  go  away  ? 
Might  not  Annette  at  last  have  fallen  victim  to 
her  own  wiles,  and  experienced  the  love  which 
she  was  only  trying  to  inspire  in  another  ?  It 
was  possible  that  there  was  an  understanding  be- 
tween them,  and  that  a  lingering  delicacy  re- 
strained Bernard  from  betraying  him  in  his  own 
house  ;  or  did  he  wish  to  place  himself  on  a  more 
equal  footing  with  the  Countess  by  renouncing 
his  salaried,  dependent  position,  which  he  felt  as 


Expiation,  187 


a  humiliation  ?  These  considerations  occupied 
M.  Volonzoff' s  thoughts  during  a  portion  of  the 
night ;  he  was  turning  them  over  in  his  mind 
with  all  the  coolness  that  he  was  capable  of, 
when  a  watch-dog  barked  under  his  windows  and 
then  was  silent,  as  if  he  had  recognized  some 
one  of  the  inmates  of  the  house.  Under  the  in- 
fluence of  his  present  preoccupation,  the  Count 
went  to  the  window  and  looked  out,  taking  care 
to  let  fall  the  curtains  behind  him,  so  that  the 
front  of  the  villa  might  remain  in  darkness  and 
not  betray  his  wakefulness.  The  night,  which 
in  the  Italian  spring-time  is  generally  bright  with 
stars,  was  dark  ;  great  storm-clouds  were  1  ang- 
ing  low  over  the  grounds  ;  still  he  thought  that 
he  saw  a  shadow  cautiously  leave  a  small  turret 
in  which  was  a  private  staircase  leading  to  the 
apartments  of  the  Countess.  This  was  sufficient 
to  make  him  leave  the  house,  first  slipping  a 
loaded  pistol  into  his  pocket.  The  figure  was 
some  distance  ahead  of  him,  but  having  once 
seen  it  plunge  into  the  labyrinth  of  shrubbery, 
M.  Volonzoff  promptly  skirted  the  long  hedge, 
on  the  other  side  of  which  he  was  conscious  of 
rapid  feet  skimming  over  the  gravel.  When  he 
reached  the  turn  where  stood  a   great  marble 


1 88  Expiation. 


vase,  the  apparition  that  he  was  following  van- 
ished within  the  pavilion  which  stood  there. 

For  a  long  time  the  Count  had  systematically 
treated  his  wife  with  the  extreme  of  toleration, 
but  this  toleration  had  its  restrictions  and  its 
limits  ;  there  was  no  one  less  likely  than  he  to 
assume  a  place  among  complaisant  or  deceived 
husbands.  "  At  this  time  of  night  she  can  only 
be  expecting  a  lover,"  he  thought,  as  he  took  his 
position,  leaning  against  a  tree.  "Well  !  let  him 
come  ;  there  is  a  warm  reception  awaiting  him!" 

With  a  concentrated,  cold  rage  that  made  even 
his  lips  white,  but  which  did  not  cause  his  hand 
to  tremble,  he  cocked  his  pistol  and  stood  wait- 
ing with  his  finger  on  the  trigger  ;  five  minutes 
scarcely,  but  they  seemed  five  centuries  to  him. 
He  would  have  been  glad  to  have  less  time  for 
reflection. 

"I  am  right,"  he  thought ;  "she  has  brought 
it  on  herself.  Still,  it  will  be  a  merciful  act  to 
spare  her.     Yes,  I  will  leave  her  to  her  remorse. 

As    for    him,   miserable   fool  ! Will  he 

never  come  ?  " 

A  thousand  other  thoughts  came  to  him,  min- 
gled with  his  resolves  for  vengeance.  He  recalled 
Bernard's  youth,  and  the  esteem,  confidence  and 


Expiation.  189 


friendship  which  he,  usually  so  sparing  of  such 
feelings,  had  always  evinced  toward  thisingrate. 

His  just  anger  was  almost  overmastered  by  a 
bitter  feeling  of  sorrow.  It  was  not  a  night  that 
invited  murder,  although  it  was  dark  and  mys- 
terious. Heavy  odors  floated  in  the  moist, 
motionless  air.  Everything  seemed  to  slumber  ; 
beneath  the  thick  shade  of  the  foliage  faint  little 
sounds  were  heard,  like  half-drawn  sighs.  An  un- 
utterable peace,  source  of  deep,  voluptuous  de- 
light, diffused  itself  from  the  veiled  sky  and  arose 
from  the  sleeping  earth;  all  nature  seemed  instinct 
with  the  sense  of  love,  while  here  there  stood  a 
man,  defiant  of  all  these  sweet  influences,  given 
over  to  hatred,  waiting  to  shed  blood. 

At  length  footsteps  were  heard  again,  and  a 
second  phantom,  masculine  in  form  this  time, 
emerging  from  the  shadows  of  the  shrubbery, 
advanced  in  the  direction  of  the  pavilion.  Quick 
as  lightning  M.  Volonzoff  had  covered  him  with 
his  pistol,  but  his  hand  fell  to  his  side  involun- 
tarily. 

"No,"  he  murmured,  "I  will  not  kill  him  in 
cold  blood."  He  could  not  bring  himself  to  fire 
upon  his  enemy  from  behind,  without  warning. 
Already,  however,  the  dark  figure  was  knocking 


1 90  Expiation. 


at  the  shutter,  which  creaked  upon  its  hinges. 
"  One  word  !  "  said  he,  coming  forward  from  his 
place  of  concealment. 

The  other  person  turned  with  a  start.  **  The 
Count  !  "  he  exclaimed,  thunderstruck.  The 
exclamation  sufficed  to  tell  tliat  it  was  Scharf. 
M.  Volonzoff  experienced  a  strange  sensation  of 
relief  as  he  recognized  the  voice. 

"What !  it  is  you?"  he  said  in  turn.  "Will 
you  explain  wliat  you  are  doing  here  ?"  And  as 
the  Doctor  hesitated  to  answer,  seeking  to  collect 
his  thoughts,  "  Perhaps  you  would  rather  that 
I  should  kill  you  like  a  dog?" 

Scharf  felt  the  pistol  against  his  throat;  he 
pushed  it  away,  and  in  a  tone  of  injured  inno- 
cence :  "If  you  kill  me,"  he  said,  "you  will  be 
punishing  an  act  of  blind  devotion  on  my  part. 
I  know  that  appearances  are  against  me,  the  most 
faithful  of  your  servants.  You  would  not  believe 
the  truth  that  I  can  tell  about  this  affair." 

"Tell  it  without  further  words.  And  first, 
this  assignation " 

"There  was  no  assignation,"  replied  Scharf, 
intentionally  raising  his  voice,  while  the  Count 
spoke  in  low  tones  ;  "  I  am  alone ;  I  came  here 
to  leave  some  papers   that   are   to   convince  a 


Expiation,  191 


certain  person,  whom  I  respect  beyond  all  else 
in  the  world,  of  a  deceit  that  her  generous  nature 
would  not  have  allowed  her  to  believe  without 
these  proofs.  She  resented  the  insulting  ad- 
vances of  a  coxcomb  by  driving  him  from  her 
presence,  but  that  is  not  sufficient  ;  she  must 
know  the  exact  degree  in  which  the  wretch  was 
guilty  toward  her." 

"  And  so  you  came  in  the  depth  of  niglit " 

"  It  was  not  I  who  selected  the  time  for  assur- 
ing the  safety  of  these  letters  that  Madame  the 
Countess  will  read  and  acquaint  herself  with 
when  she  sees  fit." 

"  Come,  come  !  you  are  trifling,  Monsieur 
Scharf,"  the  Count  interjected,  angrily  pushing 
open  the  shutter  of  the  pavilion.  "  Let  us 
make  an  end  of  this  ridiculous  story.  Do  you 
think  that  I  don't  know  that  there  is  some  one 
waiting  here  for  you  ? " 

Without  relaxing  his  hold  on  his  prisoner,  he 
entered  the  building  and  struck  a  match.  Its 
light  showed  the  room  to  be  untenanted.  Like 
all  structures  of  its  kind,  the  place  had  two 
doors.  Annette,  therefore,  at  the  first  sound  of 
high  words,  had  made  her  escape  by  one  of  the 
covered  alleys  which   terminated  at  the  round- 


92  Expiation. 


point.  The  Doctor,  who  had  anticipated  this, 
breathed  more  freely.  M.  Volonzoff  was  thought- 
ful, glad  perhaps  that  the  scandal  was  no  greater, 
though  his  inmost  convictions  on  the  subject 
remained  unchanged.  After  a  short  pause,  he 
resumed,  in  a  sharp,  imperious  tone  : 

"  Where  are  those  papers  that  you  spoke  of  ?  " 
Scharf  had  the  casket  concealed  beneath  his 
cloak  ;  he  produced  it  and  placed  it  on  the  table. 
"  They  are  here  ;  but  I  shall  only  deliver  them," 
he  added,  with  returning  boldness,  "  to  the  per- 
son whom  they  concern." 

"  I  will  see  that  the  person  gets  them,"  said 
the  Count,  laying  a  firm  hand  upon  the  stolen 
letters.  "  You  will  understand,  sir,  that  I  am 
curious  to  see  for  myself  what  there  is  in  all 
these  underhand  proceedings.  As  regards  your- 
self, let  me  say  to  you  that  I  can  allow  no  one 
to  be,  unknown  to  me,  so  jealously  careful  of  my 
honor  ;  excessive  zeal  is  a  mistake.  You  will 
receive  letters  from  your  family  to-morrow, 
summoning  you  home  in  all  haste,  and  you  will 
leave  this  house.  You  understand  me  ?  "  And 
as  the  Doctor  was  on  the  point  of  making  further 
explanations,  he  added  :  "  You  need  say  noth- 
ing more.     I  understand  you  perfectly." 


Expiation.  193 


The  words  thief  and  traitor  were  not  uttered, 
but  none  the  less  Scharf  could  read  them  in 
the  scornful  look  that  burned  into  his  soul  like 
a  red  hot  iron.  He  was  blind  with  rage,  and 
would  have  had  recourse  to  violence  had  he  not 
luckily  remembered  that  he  had  to  do  with  a 
man  of  equal,  if  not  of  superior,  strength  to  him- 
self. The  cocked  pistol,  too,  was  particularly 
efficacious  in  bringing  him  to  his  senses.  He 
yielded,  therefore,  with  the  comforting  thought 
that  he  had  discharged  this  Parthian  arrow 
against  Bernard  by  accusing  him  as  he  had  done, 
and  that  the  arrow  was  poisoned  and  would 
prove  fatal. 

A  few  moments  later  the  Count  was  back  in 
his  room,  bending  over  his  desk,  on  which  lay 
Madame  Desaubiers'  letters.  The  first  words  to 
meet  his  eye,  after  he  had  broken  open  the 
casket,  in  which  he  had  expected  to  discover 
matter  of  a  different  kind,  were  these  :  *'  When 
that  chance  which  to  me  seemed  providential  so 
unexpectedly  decided  your  future,  if  I  had  said 
to  you  *  You  will  be  living  under  the  same  roof 
with  your  own  father,  you  will  meet  him  in  your 
daily  intercourse,'  would  you  have  accepted  the 
position  with  Count  Volonzoff  ?"     He  read  the 


194  Expiation. 


letter  over  many  times,  and  the  light  which  he 
dreaded,  while  he  desired  it,  dawned  upon  his 
mind.  All  beside,  compared  to  this,  was  as 
nothing.  Memory  carried  him  back  to  years 
long  past,  to  a  bright  spring  morning  when, 
among  the  roses  that  were  blooming  around  her, 
he  had  met  a  little  rose  of  flesh  and  blood  that 
his  passing  caprice  had  breathed  upon  and 
blasted  ;  he  had  never  turned  back  to  see  what 
became  of  her  after  she  had  been  trodden  under 
foot  in  the  mire  which  God  never  intended  for 
her.  Poor  forgotten  little  rose  !  the  memories 
of  her  that  now  arose  in  him  were  tenderer  than 
ever  they  had  been  before  ;  a  fragment  of  his 
vanished  youth  came  back  to  him  with  her. 
And  then  there  passed  before  his  inner  vision  a 
second  form,  purer  than  the  first,  nobler,  loved 
with  a  deeper  and  better  love  ;  the  only  one  of 
her  sex  who  had  ever  inspired  in  his  heart  that 
tender  feeling  that  he  could  not  bestow  upon  a 
mother  or  a  sister,  being  an  orphan  and  an  only 
child  ;  the  only  woman  who  had  ever  succeeded  in 
really  reaching  his  heart,  from  which  that  death, 
which  we  call  absence,  had  never  been  able  to  dis- 
place her.  He  could  not  recall  her  without  at 
the  same  time  waking  in  her  company  a  train  of 


Expiation.  195 


the  tenderest  feelings ;  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
look  upon  her  with  indifference,  even  if  she 
were  grown  old  and  changed  beyond  recog- 
nition ;  she  would  always  be  in  his  eyes,  as  she 
had  always  been,  the  ideal  woman  ;  for  others, 
no  matter  in  what  station  of  society,  he  felt  only 
disdain.  Why  had  he  always  made  pleasure  his 
supreme  end  in  his  intercourse  with  women  ? 
Why  had  he  made  birth  and  wealth  the  condi- 
tion of  his  ill-mated  marriage  ?  His  sad  thoughts 
were  turned  to  the  bitter  fruits  that  had  been 
the  product  of  this  union,  the  result  of  the 
dictates  of  a  senseless  pride,  vexations  without 
number,  and  a  frail  scion  that  was  doomed  to 
die.  If  the  present  outlook  was  gloomy,  the 
future  was  no  less  so.  Involuntarily  M.  Volon- 
zoff  took  refuge  in  the  past,  which  lay  in  the 
bottom  of  this  Pandora's  box  that  had  been 
stolen  by  fraud  and  opened  by  violence,  and 
the  past  was  presented  to  him  in  the  features 
of  this  young  man,  so  like  the  son  that  he  would 
have  wished  for  to  worthily  carry  down  his 
name.  "  And  he  is  really  my  son  !  "  he  thought 
with  an  ineffable,  confused  feeling  of  joy  and 
stupefaction. 

In    the    eyes   of   this   man,    who    attached    a 


196  Expiation. 


supreme  inportance  to  the  laws  and  customs,  and 
even  the  slightest  prejudices  of  the  world,  it 
appeared  a  monstrous  injustice  that  one  of  his 
children,  who  had  acquired  his  education  in 
obscurity  and  retirement  by  dint  of  sheer  hard 
work,  should  have  been  produced  by  such  a 
train  of  circumstances  to  undertake  the  educa- 
tion of  another  child  of  his.  He  was  moved  as 
he  thought  of  the  blooming  youth  of  the  one 
sacrificed  to  the  sickly  childhood  of  the  other, 
and  a  mist,  which  he  brushed  away  with  his 
hand,  arose  before  his  dry  eyes,  which  knew  not 
how  to  weep. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  he  asked  himself.  It 
did  not  seem  as  if  he  could  let  Bernard  go,  and 
still  he  saw  no  way  of  preventing  him  ;  he  could 
not  open  his  heart  to  the  woman  to  whom  he 
must  shortly  appear  in  the  character  of  master 
and  judge.  He  spent  the  remainder  of  the  night 
in  anxious  deliberation  upon  this  dilemma.  The 
candles  had  burned  down  to  their  sockets  and 
the  bluish  daylight  was  beginning  to  appear 
through  the  windows  when  he  arose  from  his 
chair  saying  :  "  In  the  first  place  I  will  test  him." 

And  this  is  how  he  made  his  test. 

Very   early  in  the   morning,   the   Count,  ex- 


Expiation,  197 


tremely  pale,  entered  Bernard's  bed-chamber. 
"  Do  you  still  persist,"  he  asked,  "  in  the  resolu- 
tion that  you  spoke  to  me  of  yesterday  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  other  course  for  me  to  take,"  the 
young  man  replied. 

"We  are  in  great  trouble.  Doctor  Scharf  is 
obliged  to  absent  himself  for  a  time,  and  then 
again  change  of  air  is  recommended  for  Dima, 
who  is  suffering  from  a  feverish  attack.  I  want 
him  to  go  and  take  up  his  summer  quarters 
among  the  Alps,  but  who  will  go  with  him,  if  you 
are  unwilling  to  take  charge  of  him  ?  " 

"  Will  you  not  be  there  with  the  Countess  ? " 

M.  Volonzoff  shook  his  head.  "  We  shall  not 
go  until  a  little  later  on.  For  the  present,  there 
is  no  one  that  he  needs  so  much  as  you." 

Bernard  had  no  suspicion  of  the  true  state  of 
affairs  ;  he  wondered  whether  the  Count  was 
proceeding  on  guess-work,  or  whether  he  had 
discovered  everything.  This  latter  hypothesis 
seemed  the  more  probable  to  him  when  later  on 
he  became  aware,  with  an  agitation  that  may  be 
readily  conceived,  of  the  disappearance  of  the 
letters.  At  all  events,  circumstances  seemed  to 
favor  him,  and  he  yielded  to  their  guidance. 

"  Such  being  the  condition  of  affairs,"  he  an- 


198  Expiation, 


swered,  "  I  cannot  refuse  to  remain  at  my  post — 
temporarily  at  least — no  matter  what  the  sacri- 
fice," There  was  something  more  than  gratitude 
in  the  look  which  the  Count  bestowed  on  him  as 
he  thanked  him. 

He  did  not  see  Annette  again.  One  of  those 
indispositions,  which  nervous  women  know  so 
well  how  to  summon  up  when  needed,  explained 
the  reason  why  Dima,  before  he  set  out,  was  the 
only  person  that  she  said  good-by  to.  The  child 
came  from  the  interview  in  tears  ;  his  mother,  too, 
had  wept,  so  he  told  Bernard,  as  if  she  never  ex- 
pected to  see  him  again.  "  And  still,"  he  re- 
peated in  a  tone  that  was  half  interrogative,  "  we 
shall  all  be  together  again  in  Switzerland." 


Expiation.  199 


XII. 

IHE  Chalet  that  had  been  hired  for 
Bernard  and  Dimitri  was  too  near 
Clarens  for  us  to  attempt  to  compete 
wiih  Rousseau  by  venturing  on  a  description 
of  this  bank  of  Lake  Leman.  It  stood  in  front  of 
a  well-shaded  slope  covered  with  chestnut  groves, 
in  full  view  of  the  mountains  of  Savoy,  whose 
stern  beauty  contrasts  admirably  with  the  fertile, 
pastoral  aspect  of  the  Pays  de  Vaud.  On  one 
hand  were  vineyards,  pastures  and  orchards  ;  on 
the  other  the  domes,  peaks  and  gigantic  pyramids 
known  as  the  Aiguille  du  Midi^  the  Dents  d'Oche^ 
the  Chaumeny^  the  Velan^  and  the  dark  walls 
from  which  rise  the  rocks  of  Meillerie  were 
grouped  in  a  panorama  that  defies  description  ; 
but  the  nearest  object  to  attract  the  gaze  was  the 
Castle  of  Chillon,  mirrored  in  the  lake,  deep 
sunk  in  whose  depths,  like  roots  of  stone,  lie  its 
courses  of  masonry,  hewn  from  the  living  rock, 


200  Expiation. 


and  that  square  tower,  gazing  from  between 
whose  bars  Byron  has  shown  us  the  sad,  stern 
features  of  the  prisoner,  who,  so  powerful  is  time, 
at  last  came  to  love  his  chains.  There  is  a  feel- 
ing that  is  well  known  to  all  who  have  travelled, 
or  rather  sojourned,  among  the  Alps  ;  it  is  the 
sensation  of  restfulness  that  is  instilled  into  the 
most  troubled  minds  by  various  natural  causes 
acting  in  concert  ;  the  grandeur  of  the  scenery, 
the  purity  and  clearness  of  the  air,  the  prattling 
murmur  of  the  water  courses,  and  the  awful 
silence  of  the  glaciers  in  their  resistless,  never 
ceasing  march.  Bernard,  after  the  violent  efforts 
that  he  had  made  to  regain  his  self-control,  his 
energy  exhausted,  had  sunk  into  a  discouraged 
state  of  doubt  and  perplexity.  What  might  be 
M.  Volonzoff' s  intentions  ?  If  he  was  ignorant 
of  his  guilty  passion,  why  had  he  afforded  him 
the  opportunity  of  going  away,  and  if,  on  the 
other  hand,  he  was  cognizant  of  it,  why  did  he 
give  him  a  mark  of  such  absolute  confidence  as 
to  entrust  to  his  care  that  which  was  dearest  to 
him  in  all  the  world?  He  sometimes  suspected 
Scharf's  treachery,  whose  departure  he  was  un- 
able to  account  for  ;  but  more  frequently  he 
seemed  to  be  merely  a  passive  instrument  in  the 


Expiatioyi,  201 


hands  of  a  father,  who  was  powerful  to  do  with 
him  as  he  would.  His  face,  too,  would  flush  and 
blaze  with  shame  at  the  thought  that  she,  who  was 
the  cause  and  the  witness  of  his  weakness,  would 
never  understand  that  conduct  which  he  could 
never  explain  and  which  she  would  retaliate  by 
her  ineradicable  contempt.  What  must  Annette 
think  of  him  ?  It  seemed  to  him  that  there  could 
be  no  more  dreadful  punishment  than  to  see  her 
again,  and  meet  the  silent  reproach  of  that  scorn- 
ful smile.  He  interdicted  himself  from  thinking 
of  her,  and  he  no  longer  dared  to  think  of  Rose. 
The  mocking  dream  had  faded,  and  the  holy, 
sweet  reality  had  been  banished  by  his  fault. 
There  was  left  to  him,  nothing,  nothing  only  this 
child,  who,  thank  God,  had  need  of  him  ; 
nothing,  only  a  task  which  must  be  sufficient  for 
his  wounded  feelings  ;  for  self-devotion,  much 
more  than  mere  personal  happiness  is  the  end  and 
object  of  our  existence. 

Such  was  the  sublime  lesson  that  Bernard 
learned  among  the  valleys  of  the  Alps.  Day  by 
day  he  saw  the  same  sun  vainly  cast  its  everlast- 
ing beams  upon  the  immemorial  snows  which 
never  melt ;  he  saw  the  unchanging  verdure  of 
the  pines  smile  upon  the  Cyclopean  ruin  that  the 


202  Expiation. 


avalanche  had  torn  in  the  mountain  side,  and  the 
great  waves  of  the  lake,  excited  to  fury  by  the 
storm,  fall  back  tamed  into  repose  and  quiet.  In- 
sensibly his  troubled  spirit  was  penetrated  by  the 
peace,  the  harmony,  the  grandeur  of  its  sur- 
roundings. Passion,  born  of  a  flash  and  dissi- 
pated by  a  breath,  seemed  to  him  nothing  more 
than  a  fit  of  delirium  by  the  side  of  love  which 
resists  everything  and  survives  all  things.  But 
that  true  love — he  had  cruelly  wounded  it,  and 
felt  that  he  was  no  longer  worthy  of  it. 

Bernard's  whole  life  was  now  devoted  to  Dima, 
of  whose  condition  he  wrote  every  day  apprizing 
M.  Volonzoff.  Their  time  was  passed  in  the 
open  air,  often  in  a  boat,  rowing  on  the  lake,  a 
pastime  which  afforded  the  sick  boy  great  pleas- 
ure. Lying  on  his  cushions,  he  yielded  himself 
to  the  gentle  rocking  of  the  little  waves,  while 
the  oars,  plied  by  his  sturdy  companion,  struck 
the  clear  water  with  measured  strokes. 

"  I  do  not  regret  now  the  amusements  of  other 
children,  whom  I  used  to  envy  so,"  he  would 
say.  "  I  would  give  them  all  up  only  to  be  here 
with  you." 

Sometimes  they  took  a  light  carriage  and 
drove  over  the  by-roads,  of  which  there  are  many 


Expiation,  203 


in  this  frequented  portion  of  the  Alps.  Dima  pre- 
tended to  have  a  great  desire  to  climb  with  Ber- 
nard's legs  and  see  with  his  eyes.  So  he  sent 
him  to  explore  those  elevations  that  were  inac- 
cessible to  him  on  account  of  his  weakness,  as  if 
he  comprehended  the  moral  benefit  that  is  de- 
rived from  contending  with  the  obstacles  of 
nature,  compared  with  which  the  accidents  of 
our  poor  little  lives  are  so  mean  and  transitory. 
As  we  rise  above  the  earth,  the  ghosts  of  times 
that  are  past  and  gone  vanish  like  a  wreath  of 
smoke  on  the  horizon,  and  the  noxious  exhala- 
tions of  the  world  are  under  our  feet,  like  the 
clouds  that  interposed  between  us  and  the  pure 
ether  while  we  were  in  the  valley.  The  sadness 
that  had  lain  so  heavily  on  Bernard  at  his  de- 
parture, passed  away,  and  Dima's  watchful  eye 
observed  that  he  was  regaining  his  old  cheerful 
calmness.  The  rare  flowers  that  his  young  friend 
had  sent  him  to  look  for  on  the  mountain  tops 
were  health,  quiet  and  oblivion.  Inured  to 
every  extremity  of  suffering  in  his  own  person, 
he  could  not  bear  to  see  a  trace  of  it  in  his 
friend.  As  regards  himself,  on  the  other  hand, 
he  had  learned  to  be  resigned,  and  his  intelli- 
gence was  developing  to  such  a  degree  as  almost 


204  Expiation. 


to  cause  alarm.  Bernard  could  not  help  think- 
ing of  those  fruits  which  ripen  too  quickly  and 
fall  prematurely.  The  ardor  of  an  affection  that 
swayed  them  both  to  such  an  extent  served  to 
increase  the  anxiety  which  he  felt  on  this  score. 
Every  time  that  he  received  a  letter  from  the 
Count,  he  trembled  with  the  fear  that  it  con- 
tained the  announcement  of  his  coming,  which 
would  be  for  him  the  signal  of  separation.  But 
M.  Volonzoff  seemed  to  be  in  no  hurry  to  end 
his  respite,  beyond  which  Bernard  could  descry 
nothing  but  the  anguish  of  another  parting.  He 
asked  himself.  What  would  there  be  left  for  him 
to  do  then  ? 

His  question  did  not  remain  long  unanswered. 
That  year  of  1870  saw  the  outbreak  of  war  be- 
tween France  and  Germany.  The  unwarranted 
hurrah  of  victory  which  we  raised  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  struggle  was  immediately  succeeded 
by  the  most  overwhelming  disaster.  Like  so 
many  others,  Bernard's  love  for  his  country  had 
been  weak  so  long  as  he  thought  her  invincible  ; 
when  the  day  came  that  France  was  in  danger, 
he  felt  that  he  was  a  Frenchman.  The  impossi- 
bility flashed  upon  him  of  his  remaining  any 
longer  in  this  mountain  retreat,  outside  of  which 


Expiation,  205 


only  the  day  before  he  had  seen  no  place  for 
himself  in  all  the  world,  and  the  day  after  Reichs- 
hoffen  he  notified  the  Count  of  his  intention  to 
enlist.  M.  Volonzoff  answered  his  letter  in  per- 
son ;  he  must  have  been  much  disturbed  by  Ber- 
nard's resolve,  for  he  did  not  lose  a  moment  in 
coming  to  dissuade  him  from  his  purpose.  He 
arrived  unexpectedly  at  evening  ;  as  he  entered 
the  low  room  of  the  chalet  where  the  two  friends 
were  engaged  in  following  the  advance  of  the 
German  troops  on  the  map,  Dima  uttered  a  cry 
of  joy,  immediately  followed  by  a  sigh  of  disap- 
pointment : 

"  Where  is  Mamma  ?  " 

"Your  mother  could  not  come  just  now," 
shortly  answered  the  Count.  Then,  turning  to 
Bernard,  he  went  on  impetuously  :  "  Did  you 
mean  to  ask  for  my  advice  ? " 

Bernard  shook  his  head.  "  If  I  had  asked 
you  for  advice,  it  would  have  presupposed  in- 
decision." 

"  Your  mind  is  made  up  then — you  are  resolved 
to  commit  a  folly?  Do  you  think  that  one  recruit 
more  will  materially  strengthen  your  army  ?  " 

"  If  every  one  looked  at  it  in  that  light,  no 
one  would  do  his  duty." 


2o6  Expiatio7i. 


"  Do  you  believe  that  the  French  army,  re- 
duced by  its  successes  in  Italy,  as  well  as  by  its 
reverses  in  Mexico,  is  anything  like  that  army 
which  whipped  us  in  the  Crimea  ?  In  the  state 
that  it  is  now,  without  allies  and  without  lead- 
ers, it  will  have  no  chance  against  a  nation  of 
fighters.     It  is  doomed  to  defeat." 

'*  Even  admitting  that  you  are  right,  which  I 
very  much  doubt,  glory  is  not  the  only  incentive 
to  love  of  country." 

"  But  your  patriotism  is  only  a  young  man's 
vanity.  The  poorest  peasant  will  make  better 
food  for  powder  than  an  educated  man  like 
you,  and  his  life  is  not  so  valuable." 

"  I  aiii  no  better  than  the  peasant  that  you 
speak  of.  I  hope  that  I  shall  fight  as  bravely  as 
he  would,  and  then  I  shall  not  have  the  fear  of 
leaving  a  family  unprovided  for,  which  would 
harass  him." 

"  So  the  fact  that  you  are  alone  in  the  world 
is  what  decides  you  ? "  said  the  Count  in  a 
changed  voice.  "  If  you  had  a  mother  to  be- 
seech you " 

''What  is  the  use  of  forming  suppositions  ?" 
said  Bernard,  looking  his  interlocutor  in  the 
face.     "  My  mother  is  dead." 


Expiation.  207 


"Would  you  disobey  the  orders  of  a  father  ?" 
said  the  Count  with  a  violence  of  feeling  that  he 
hardly  tried  to  conceal. 

"  If  my  father  were  alive,  he  would  not  exact 
that  his  son  should  disgrace  himself  by  a  coward- 
ly action." 

"  It  is  not  cowardly  to  await  the  summons, 
instead  of  anticipating  it." 

"  You  do  not  take  into  account,  sir,  that  there 
is  more  due  to  my  country  from  me  than  there 
is  from  other  men.  It  adopted  me  from  my 
birth,  almost,  and  has  been  all  in  all  to  me,  father 
and  mother  at  once." 

M.  Volonzoff  bowed  his  head  ;  then,  pointing 
to  Dima,  who  had  been  a  breathless  witness  of 
the  scene  :  "  I  thought  that  you  loved  him  !  " 
said  he  reproachfully.  Bernard's  only  answer 
was  to  embrace  the  child. 

"  Go  ! "  cried  Dima  with  energy.  "  I  would 
do  as  you  are  doing,  if  I  were  in  your  place,  and 
I,  too,  will  show  that  I  am  brave  by  giving  you 
up.  We  shall  meet  again — I  feel  sure  we  shall ! 
I  will  wait  for  you." 

M.  Volonzoff  had  turned  away  to  conceal  his 
emotion.  '*  He  has  instructed  the  boy  in  honor, 
too,"  he  murmured.     "  You  are  two  against  one. 


2o8  Expiation. 


Can  I  not  do  anything  for  you  ? "  he  added, 
addressing  Bernard  in  mute  anguish. 

"For  me,  nothing,"  replied  Bernard;  "but 
should  I  fall — don't  be  afraid,  Dima ;  as  you 
said,  we  shall  meet  again — if  I  should  fall,  there 
is  one  person  in  the  world  whom  I  should  like  to 
recommend  to  your  protection.  Who  can  foresee 
what  will  happen  in  a  campaign  ?  The  young 
girl  is  poor,  with  no  one  to  befriend  her.  ..." 

"  I  know  whom  you  mean ;  Mademoiselle 
Rose  Aymes." 

A  gesture  that  escaped  Bernard  showed  his 
surprise. 

"  Chance  placed  your  secrets  in  my  hands. 
They  are  safe  with  me.  You  may  depend  upon 
me  to  do  what  you  ask.  And  is  that  all  that  you 
have  to  say  to  me  before  you  go  away  ? " 

The  two  men  looked  each  other  in  the  eyes 
again.  Bernard's  gaze  expressed  a  silent  prayer 
that  could  not  be  set  in  words.  The  Count  an- 
swered it  by  opening  wide  his  arms  to  his  son 
without  speaking. 


Expiation,  209 


XIII. 

[HE  first  thing  that  Bernard  did  when 
he  reached  Paris  was  to  enlist  in  a 
regiment  of  the  line.  When  by  doing 
this  he  had  reinstated  himself  in  his  own  esteem, 
he  felt  courageous  enough  to  do  something  that 
he  could  not  have  done  before.  He  felt  that  he 
could  now  present  himself  before  Rose,  for  he 
was  commencing  a  new  life,  and  was  becoming 
worthy  at  least  of  her  esteem.  Full  of  that  deep- 
seated  and  honestly  earned  contentment  that 
arises  from  a  duty  accomplished,  he  bent  his 
steps  in  the  direction  of  the  lonely  quarter  and 
the  gloomy  old  house  where  she  lived.  When  at 
a  distance  he  descried  the  balcony,  way  up  near 
the  sky,  from  whence  she  used  in  old  days  to 
watch  for  his  coming,  a  wealth  of  tender 
memories  arose  within  him,  while  the  more  re- 
cent occurrences  disappeared  like  a  dream.  No, 
they  had  never  been  parted  ;  he  would  soon  hear 


Expiation, 


her  cheerful,  ringing  voice  calling  to  him  from 
the  distance ;  already  he  thought  he  heard  it. 
As  he  was  half  way  up  the  staircase,  the  con- 
cierge stopped  him  and  asked  where  he  was  going. 
Mademoiselle  Aymes,  he  told  him,  had  left  the 
house  after  her  mother's  death,  and  was  living  in 
the  country. 

"Her  mother's  death!"  Bernard  repeated. 
He  made  enquiries  about  the  lingering  illness, 
which  had  not  been  unlooked  for,  to  which 
Madame  Aymes  had  succumbed.  It  was  less 
the  news  of  her  death  that  upset  him  than  Rose's 
silence,  the  thought  that  he  was  so  completely 
obliterated  from  her  affection,  from  her  memory, 
from  her  life. 

All  the  bright  images  which  had  so  cheered 
him  but  a  few  moments  ago  died  out,  one  by  one, 
in  presence  of  this  heart-breaking  evidence  of 
her  indifference.  For  a  few  minutes  he  was  un- 
decided as  to  what  he  should  do.  Should  he  go 
to  Madame  Desaubiers  ?  He  had  no  doubt  that 
Rose  was  there.  How  would  she  receive  him  ? 
After  all,  he  thought,  I  shall  only  trouble  her  a 
moment.  I  will  go.  The  way  there  had  never 
seemed  to  him  so  long,  and  yet  he  dreaded  to 
reach  the  house.     The  sight  of  every  well-known 


Expiation,  211 


spot  was  a  pang  to  him.  Why  is  it  that  inani- 
mate objects  always  look  the  same,  while  our 
feelings  change  so  ? 

Sending  away  the  conveyance  that  had  brought 
him  thus  far,  he  followed,  as  he  had  so  often 
done  before,  the  tow-path  along  the  margin  of 
the  Seine  ;  there  he  had  taken  many  a  walk  with 

Rose,  there  he   had .     Suddenly  Bernard 

came  to  a  halt.  A  few  steps  in  advance  he  be- 
held a  slender  form  clad  in  black.  Her  step 
had  lost  its  old  freedom  and  elasticity,  but  he 
still  recognized  her.  She  stood  out  in  relief 
against  the  bright  sunlight  on  the  level  strip  of 
sand,  which  stretched  away  between  its  two  mar- 
gins of  turf  like  a  long  white  ribbon.  He  was 
conscious  of  the  weary  droop  of  her  head,  of  the 
black  veil  that  concealed  her  tresses,  of  the  neg- 
lected book  that  she  held  open  in  her  hand.  On 
the  flowery  slope  of  a  little  cove  that  he  knew 
well,  she  stopped  and  seemed  to  look  at  some- 
thing ;  perhaps  a  swallow,  skimming  the  water 
in  his  swift  flight,  perhaps  the  reeds,  concealing 
the  slippery  treacherous  bank  with  their  waving 
stalks  ;  but  no,  she  was  not  conscious  of  any  of 
these  things,  nor  of  anything  else  that  was  within 
her  ken.     She  was  saying  to  herself  that  here 


212  Expiation. 


was  the  place  where  she  had  caught  her  first 
glimpses  of  that  deceptive  happiness  in  which 
she  had  trusted,  as  she  trusted  in  her  God,  and 
that  she  would  have  waited  for  its  fruition  with 
a  patience  that  nothing  could  have  wearied,  had 
not  he,  from  whose  hands  she  was  to  receive  it, 
himself  disabused  her  hopes.  He  saw  her  wipe 
away  her  tears.  Ah  !  how  many  tears  had  he 
caused  her  by  his  unfeeling  abandonment  of  her, 
more  bitter  to  her  than  death !  The  blazing 
summer  sun  shot  his  fierce  rays  down  on  this 
sorrowful  little  black  speck  among  the  surround- 
ing brightness,  a  mute  protest,  as  it  were,  against 
the  brilliant  beauty  of  the  landscape,  but  she 
would  have  been  insensible  to  the  flames  of  a 
seven  times  heated  furnace  ;  perhaps  she  was  un- 
conscious as  well  of  the  sound  of  hurrying  foot- 
steps behind  her ;  she  only  turned  when  she  felt 
a  hand  laid  lightly  upon  her  shoulder.  Could  it 
be  the  phantom  which  she  had  been  invoking 
that  now  appeared  before  her  ?  She  gave  a  weak 
cry,  tottered,  and  would  have  fallen^  had  not 
Bernard  supported  her. 

"  You  were  weeping,"  he  said,  not  daring  to 
press  the  hand  which  she  had  given  him.  Her 
only  response  was  to  point  to  her  black  dress. 


Expiation. 


"  And  you  did  not  let  me  know  !  How  could 
you  treat  me  as  if  I  was  a  stranger  ?  The 
punishment  was  greater  than  the  fault,  however 
guilty  I  may  have  been.  Rose,  do  you  know 
what  I  was  thinking  of  just  now,  before  I  met  you? 
I  was  thinking  that,  no  matter  how  hard  I  may 
try,  I  shall  never  accomplish  anything  good  or 
great  in  this  world,  unless  you  give  me  the  sup- 
port and  assistance  of  your  friendship.  You 
were  too  hasty  in  depriving  me  of  it ;  I  did  not 
deserve  to  lose  everything  at  a  single  blow." 

"  You  have  always  had  my  kindest  feelings," 
stammered  Rose  confusedly,  "  and  if  I  had 
thought  that  my  friendship  would  have  been  an 

assistance  to  you,  and  not  a  burthen "     The 

poor  girl  checked  herself,  and  a  vivid  blush 
overspread  her  features.  It  was  tender  feeling 
for  him,  and  not  anger  or  jealousy,  that  had 
prompted  her  to  cease  writing  to  him,  and  had 
enjoined  upon  Madame  Desaubiers  to  refrain 
from  mentioning  her  name  in  writing  to  him. 
Why  should  she  step  in  and  interfere  with  his 
new  love  ?  The  greatest  pain  of  all  would  have 
been  to  know  that  she  had  inflicted  on  him  the 
sufferings  of  remorse,  or  had  even  caused  him 
one  distressing  recollection.     If  she  could  have 


214  Expiation, 


obliterated  herself  and  her  feelings  more  com- 
pletely still,  she  would  have  done  so  ;  but  how 
could  she  tell  him  that  ? 

"  I  would  at  least  like  to  have  your  pardon," 
humbly  said  Bernard. 

She  blushed  again,  and  her  habitually  serious 
expression,  which  contrasted  so  singularly  with 
her  childish  features,  assumed  an  aspect  of 
sternness.  "  I  have  nothing  to  pardon  ;  you  have 
not  wronged  me." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  hold  the  wrong  I 
have  done  you  in  such  utter  scorn  that  you 
refuse  to  acknowledge  its  existence  ?  Ah  !  I 
appeal  from  your  pride  to  your  compassion  ;  it 
will  teach  you  kinder  words  ;  reflect  that  what 
you  say  now  will  perhaps  be  the  last  words  that 
I  shall  ever  hear  from  your  mouth." 

"  The  last  words — what  do  you  mean  ? " 

"I  have  joined  the  army  and  am  going  to 
meet  the  Prussians.  I  am  a  soldier,  passing  his 
last  free  day  at  your  side." 

She  did  not  wound  his  feelings  by  any  ex- 
pression of  astonishment.  "  It  is  well,"  she  only 
said,  but  extending  to  him,  this  time  with 
warmth,  her  hand,  which  she  allowed  to  linger 
in  his  own.     Wordy  protestations  would  have 


Expiation.  215 


found  no  favor  with  her  and  would  have  left  her 
cold  and  incredulous  ;  her  favorite  proverb, 
which  she  lived  up  to,  was,  "  Deeds  are  better 
than  words."  Actions  alone  had  power  to  con- 
vince her,  and  this  action  of  his  seemed  to  her 
to  be  worthy  of  a  man  of  feeling. 

"  And  so,"  she  said  in  a  gentler  tone,"  you  want 
me  to  pardon  you.  A  resolution  such  as  that 
which  you  have  come  to  atones  for  many  a  fault! " 

"But  many  a  man  makes  this  resolve  without 
having  any  faults  to  atone  for." 

"  Yes,  all  will  come  to  it,  no  doubt ;  otherwise 
they  would  be  less  than  men  ;  but  the  merit  in 
your  case  is  greater  than  it  is  with  most." 

"Why  so?" 

"  There  were  so  many  ties,  so  many  interests, 
to  detain  you  yonder  in  Switzerland." 

"You  are  mistaken,"  quickly  replied  Bernard; 
*'you  are  mistaken,  upon  my  word  you  are.  Ah  ! 
if  I  could  only  tell  you  all,  if  this  secret  did  not 
concern  others  beside  myself " 

"  I  would  not  let  you  tell  me,"  the  young  girl 
feelingly  interrupted ;  "  I  wish  never  to  know  it. 
There  is  but  one  thing  that  I  care  anything  about: 
that  you  have  done  your  duty  to-day,  and  that 
you  came  to  me  to  tell  me  about  it." 


2i6  Expiation. 


"  I  thank  you  !  How  I  am  running  into  debt 
to  you  again,  dear  Rose  !  " 

"  Pay  it  to  your  country.  We  all  owe  every- 
thing to  her." 

•'  But  whether  I  live  happily  or  die  nobly,  I  have, 
and  shall  always  have,  need  of  you.  Tell  me  that, 
if  I  never  come  back,  you  will  think  of  me  without 
anger  or  bitterness  for  the  wrong  I  have  done  you." 

**0f  all  the  past  I  shall  remember  only  one 
thing,  and  that  is,  how  fondly  I  loved  you," 
cried  Rose,  maidenly  reserve  yielding  to  a  great 
wave  of  kindness. 

"  As  a  friend  ? "  Bernard  whispered.  She  was 
silent.  "Answer,  Rose.  Who  can  tell  if  we 
shall  ever  meet  again  as  we  are  now  ? " 

"  No  separation  is  eternal,"  she  said,  fixing 
upon  him  her  eyes  that  were  so  full  of  trust,  "  I 
have  felt  that  ever  since  my  mother  left  me." 

"  Ah,  Rose  !  If  I  should  come  back  alive — 
and  if  you  could  love  me  !  " 

'*  Come  back  !  "  she  said,  and  the  words  con- 
tained every  pardon  and  every  promise. 

They  went  together  to  find  Madame  Desau- 
biers,  and  Rose  explained  what  Bernard  had 
done.  And  the  return  of  the  prodigal  was  never 
celebrated  in  grander  style. 


Expiation,  217 


XIV. 

|lOLENT  emotions  and  unexpected 
visits  now  followed  rapidly  on  each 
other's  heels  in  the  little  house  that 
had  so  long  stood  peaceably  by  the  water's  side. 
Bernard  had  scarcely  got  away  to  join  his  regi- 
ment when  one  morning  old  Mariette,  her  eyes 
still  red  with  weeping  over  the  young  soldier's 
departure,  came  hastening  to  her  mistress  with  a 
wild  look  in  her  eyes,  and  announced  that  there 
was  a  magnificent  gentleman  down  stairs,  whom 
she  did  not  know,  and  who  had  given  her  his 
card.  Madame  Desaubiers  upon  reading  the 
name  on  the  card  trembled  and  became  so  pale 
that  Mariette  exclaimed  : 

"  Madame  is  ill !  " 

"  No,"  she  replied,  with  a  quivering  of  the  lips 
that  bore  but  faint  resemblance  to  a  smile,  "  it  is 
nothing  but  surprise." 

But  it  was  something  more  than  surprise,  it 


2i8  Expiation. 


was  terror  as  well.  "  Count  Volonzoff  !  "  And 
he  was  there,  in  her  house  !  What  purpose  could 
have  brought  him  there  ?  It  was  no  doubt  to 
reproach  her  for  having  brought  shame  and 
trouble  to  his  house  by  her  romantic  imprudence 
and  seeming  duplicity.  A  single  sentence  of 
Bernard  had  caused  her  the  greatest  perplexity  : 

"  The  Count  knows  all  !  "  What  answer  could 
she  make  to  his  reproaches  ?  What  justification 
had  she  against  what  was,  to  all  appearances,  a 
base  conspiracy  ;  against  what  was,  under  what- 
ever light  it  might  be  regarded,  a  wrong  against 

him? for   nothing  could  have  given  her 

any  right  to  impose  on  the  father  the  presence 
of  a  son  whom  he  had  disowned.  She  could  not 
rid  herself  of  her  responsibility  by  shifting  it 
over  upon  blind  destiny  ;  our  will  was  given  us 
that  we  might  counteract,  when  necessary,  the 
decrees  of  fate.    What  use  had  she  made  of  her's  ? 

These  reflections  distressed  Madame  Desau- 
biers  horribly,  and  at  the  same  time  overmastered 
the  joy  which  she  would  otherwise  have  felt  in 
beholding  a  face  that  for  many  a  long  year  she 
had  ceased  to  consider  as  being  among  the  liv- 
ing. His  every  feature  was  engraved  upon  her 
heart,  illuminated  by  that  ideal  halo  which  sur- 


Expiation.  219 


rounds  everything  that  has  been  long  past  and 
gone.  And  now,  alas  !  they  were  at  last  about 
to  meet  again,  changed,  no  doubt,  both  of 
them,  in  more  ways  than  one.  His  first  words 
to  her  would  be  words  of  bitterness,  and  she, 
upon  whom  he  had  once  looked  with  admiration 
and  esteem,  was  to  appear  before  him  as  an  ac- 
cused person  !  With  faltering  steps  Madame 
Desaubiers  descended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the 
drawing-room.  When  she  reached  the  vestibule 
she  hesitated  again  and  stopped  with  her  hand 
upon  the  door-knob.  A  sound  which  struck  her 
ear  tended  to  reassure  her  ;  it  was  Rose's  voice; 
then  she  heard  the  tones  of  another  voice  which 
recalled  the  happiest  days  of  her  life,  those  rest- 
ful, well-filled  evenings,  when  M.  Volonzoff  used 
to  come  and  knock  at  that  same  door,  putting 
behind  him  the  great  world  for  which  a  sincere 
attachment  had  for  the  time  being  inspired  him 
with  disgust.  "  I  have  only  to  cross  your  thresh- 
old," he  was  wont  to  say,  "  to  feel  that  I  am  in 
the  refreshing  shade  of  your  calmness  and  your 
goodness,  my  whole  being  penetrated  by  a  de- 
licious sense  of  repose,  like  the  devotee  in  his 
temple."  Reassured  at  last  by  the  remembrance 
of    her   old-time  power  over  him,  and  by  the 


220  Expiation, 


thought  that  there  was  a  third  party  present,  she 
entered  the  room. 

M.  Volonzoff  had  taken  the  place  by  the  chim- 
ney that  he  had  always  preferred  of  old.  He 
was  absently  twisting  a  little  agate  chaplet  around 
his  fingers,  as  he  had  invariably  been  wont  to  do 
in  those  days,  like  most  talkers,  who  are  at  a  loss 
without  a  plaything  of  some  kind  in  their  hands. 

Madame  Desaubiers  might  have  thought  that 
there  had  never  been  any  break  in  the  old  rou- 
tine, so  naturally  did  he  return  to  it.  Rose,  mod- 
est and  self-possessed,  was  seated  at  a  short  dis- 
tance from  him,  answering  his  questions  briefly 
and  to  the  point.  Any  one  who  knew  how  to  read 
her  thoughts  in  her  eyes  could  easily  have  told 
that  she  was  deeply  interested  in  what  he  was 
saying,  and  profoundly  sympathetic.  When  Ma- 
dame Desaubiers  appeared  and  the  stranger  ad- 
vanced to  meet  her  with  outstretched  hands,  she 
arose  discreetly  and  would  have  retired,  but  a 
slight  gesture,  which  still  did  not  escape  M.  Vol- 
onzoff, stopped  her. 

*'  In  your  absence,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
presenting  to  Mademoiselle  Aymes  one  of  your 
old  friends,  and  one  of  the  best  of  them,  I 
hope,"  said  the  Count.     "I  am  not  mistaken  in 


Expiation, 


221 


supposing  this  to  be  Mademoiselle  Aym^s,  am 
I  ?  I  should  have  known  her,  I  think,  even  if  I 
had  not  seen  a  certain  miniature,  which  leaves 
me  no  room  for  doubt."  He  looked  with  inter- 
est toward  the  young  girl,  who  was  visibly 
moved  at  the  mention  of  the  love-token  which 
she  had  formerly  given  Bernard.  "  You  did 
well  in  not  allowing  her  to  leave  the  room  ;  for 
we  shall  need  her  concurrence  in  a  plan  which 
I  propose  to  lay  before  you  presently." 

The  situation  could  never  be  difficult  in  the 
presence  of  a  man  like  the  Count.  His  readi- 
ness and  his  perfect  ease  of  manner,  if  they 
were  unavailing  to  restore  to  Madame  D^sau- 
biers  the  faculty  of  speech,  at  least  rendered 
it  easier  for  her  to  breathe  and  raise  her 
eyes. 

It  was  he  ;  there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his 
identity.  The  only  change  that  the  lapse  of 
years  had  brought  to  him  was  to  bring  out 
more  strongly  his  resemblance  to  certain  por- 
traits of  Van  Dyck  and  Velasquez,  in  which  the 
haughty  cavaliers  seemed  to  have  gained  rather 
than  to  have  lost  by  their  being  no  longer  young, 
thanks  to  their  noble  bearing,  to  their  dignified 
carriage,  and  the  strength  and  power  clearly  mani- 


222  Expiation. 


fested  beneath  their  elegant  forms.  Madame  D^s- 
aubiers  glanced  rapidly  at  the  mirror  that 
faced  her  ;  a  woman  is  none  the  less  a  woman 
for  her  being  a  saint.  As  she  looked,  her  fine 
features  lighted  up  with  something  of  their  youth- 
ful beauty  under  the  touching,  wistful  look  that 
her  eyes  expressed.  He,  too,  could  look  back 
into  his  thoughts  and  find  her  unchanged  from 
his  memories  of  her.  Their  conversation  was 
serious  and  restrained  on  either  side,  but  through 
it  all  there  vibrated  a  note  of  deep  affection.  It 
is  generally  believed  that  love  can  be  trans- 
formed to  friendship  at  will.  This  is  not  the 
case  when  a  worn-out  love  is  in  question,  or 
when  by  love  is  meant  that  form  of  passion 
which  is  just  as  violent  and  just  as  selfish  as 
hate.  When  the  ups  and  downs  of  life  bring 
together  again  two  persons  who  have  once  been 
lovers,  either  absolute  indifference,  bitter  hatred, 
or  some  painful  emotion,  whether  it  be  regret 
or  whether  it  be  remorse,  must  be  the  feelings 
that  lie  beneath  those  ashes  that  are  partly  ex- 
tinguished, or  else  grown  wholly  cold  ;  while  on 
the  other  hand  friendship  is  always  the  end  and 
reward  of  a  courageous  struggle  against  an 
inclination  which   has  been  overcome,  and  the 


Expiation,  223 


thought  of  which  therefore  carries  with  it  no 
feeling  of  shame. 

In  view,  however,  of  the  delicate  circum- 
stances in  which  they  were  placed,  there  could 
not  be  entire  unconstraint  between  them.  Neither 
of  them  spoke  of  Bernard.  Nevertheless  they 
talked  freely  on  every  subject,  and  particularly 
on  that  which  was  of  such  distressing  interest 
in  those  terrible  days.  The  war  and  the  ap- 
proaching siege  afforded  them  an  inexhaustible 
topic. 

"  And  what  do  you  intend  to  do  ?  "  M.  Volon- 
zoff  finally  asked.  *' You  cannot  stay  here,  in  a 
country  place  like  this,  and  wait  for  the  Prussians 
to  come.     It  is  not  a  safe  place  for  two  women." 

"  It  is  my  intention,"  replied  Madame  Desau- 
biers,  "to  go  into  Paris  before  they  close  the 
gates.  There  will  be  the  sick  and  wounded  to 
take  care  of.  Every  woman  has  a  duty  plain  be- 
fore her." 

M.  Volonzoff  tried  ineffectually  to  persuade 
her  to  seek  refuge  in  the  provinces  or  abroad. 
Would  she  not  come  to  Switzerland?  He  was 
wholly  at  her  orders. 

"  You  might  as  well  try  to  make  a  soldier  de- 
sert on  the  day  of  battle,"  said  she,  shaking  her 


224  Expiation. 


head  with  the  smile  which  he  very  well  knew  de- 
noted an  unchangeable  resolution. 

"  And  is  Mademoiselle  Rose  to  go  with  you  ? 
Young  and  delicate  as  she  is  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Rose  impetuously,  "  there  is 
nothing  that  I  am  not  ready  to  undertake,  nothing 
that  I  cannot  go  through,  now  !  " 

**  Now  ?  "  the  Count  repeated. 

"  Yes,"  Madame  Desaubiers  explained,  "  hap- 
piness makes  us  fearless,  and  after  having  en- 
dured much  suffering,  Rose  is  happy  now." 

The  young  girl's  eyes  sank  under  M.  Volon- 
zoff's  penetrating  look. 

"  Our  strength,"  said  he,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  "  is  not  alwciys  equal  to  our  courage." 

"  A1.1S  ! "  replied  Madame  Desaubiers,  "  I  have 
thought  of  that.  She  is  nervous  and  impres- 
sionable, and  her  recent  trials  have  nearly  broken 
her  down.  No  doubt  she  will  suffer  greatly  from 
the  privations  that  must  be  expected  in  a  city  in 
a  state  of  siege." 

"  I  shall  suffer  in  good  company,  and  there 
will  be  plenty  of  it,"  said  Rose  unconcernedly. 

*'  You  would  soon  be  one  of  Madame  Desau- 
biers' sick  folks,"  said  the  Count,  "and  you 
would  only  be  a  care  and  hindrance  to  her.     As 


Expiation.  225 


I  have  been  intrusted  with  the  care  of  looking 
after  you,  Mademoiselle  (possibly  you  may  not 
be  aware  of  it),  I  cannot  give  my  consent  to  any 
such  rash  proceeding  Do  you  feel  inclined 
toward  deeds  of  charity  ?  Let  me  tell  you  of 
one  which  will  take  you  away  from  Paris.  There 
is  a  poor  friendless,  sick  boy,  who  needs 
some  one  to  console  him  in  his  grief  for  the 
loss  of  his  only  friend,  of  whom  this  wretched 
war  has  bereft  him." 

"  Your  son?"  ventured  Rose.  "  Oh  !  I  know 
him  very  well  already,  and  I  love  him  !  " 

*' And  he  needs  your  love.  You  may  be  as- 
sured that  nowhere  could  your  tenderness  and 
goodness  find  a  better  object  for  their  employ- 
ment." 

Rose  was  silent ;  she  seemed  to  hear  Bernard's 
voice  appealing  to  her  to  say  yes. 

"Well !  what  is  your  answer  ?"  urged  M.  Vo- 
lonzoff.  "  I  will  take  good  care  of  you  on  the 
trip  down  there,  you  will  have  a  place  of  safety 
in  which  to  await  the  cessation  of  the  storm,  and 
afterward,  if  you  require  it,  you  shall  have  your 
freedom  again.  You  will  have  done  a  good 
deed,  and  will  have  carried  out,"  he  added  with 
marked  emphasis,  "  the  heart-felt  desire  of  one 


2  26  Expiation. 


who  is  fondly  attached  to  you  and  who  is  now 
far  away." 

Rose  requested  time  for  reflection  and  con- 
sultation ;  alleging  this  as  her  reason,  she  left 
the  room  as  the  Count  was  saying  to  Madame 
D^saubiers  : 

"  And  now,  let  us  talk  about  him  !  " 

The  ice  was  broken  and  any  preliminary  ex- 
planation was  unnecessary  ;  she  understood  what 
he  wanted,  and  they  talked  at  length  of  the  past. 
She  told  him  everything,  from  the  day  when  she 
had  received  the  abandoned  child,  standing  by 
the  bedside  of  his  dying  mother,  and  how  the 
boy  had  grown  up  under  her  wing  without  her 
ever  having  detected  in  him  a  single  impulse 
that  was  otherwise  than  good  and  noble. 

The  Count  listened  eagerly,  as  if  he  would 
have  put  back  the  clock  of  time  and  regained 
that  which  he  had  lost  ;  he  made  minute  inqui- 
ries, and  seemed  to  understand  by  intuition  any- 
thing that  was  omitted  from  the  narrative,  so  that 
Madame  Desaubiers  stopped  more  than  once  to 
say  :  "  Why,  you  know  him  as  well  as  I  know 
him  myself." 

It  was  a  delightful  hour  that,  stolen  from  the 
cares   and  troubles   of  the  present.     However 


Expiation.  227 

slight  the  ties  which  united  them,  they  still  had 
that  interest  in  common  which  sanctifies  love  and 
makes  it  eternal,  a  child  whom  each  could  love 
and  to  whom  each  had  equal  claim,  for  Madame 
Desaubiers  had  been  a  mother  to  him  in  the  high- 
est sense  of  the  word ;  she  had  developed  his 
soul  and  formed  his  understanding.  "  Our  child," 
she  would  say  when  mentioning  Bernard,  with 
an  ingenuousness  that  an  honest  woman  can  dis- 
play, even  when  her  hair  is  gray,  without  making 
herself  ridiculous.  But  the  Count,  with  great 
tenderness,  would  reply  : 

"He  is  yours,  yours  only  ;  for  you  gnve  him 
your  care  during  his  childhood,  and  whatever  he 
is,  you  have  made  him." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  she,  "  I  should  have  been  faith- 
less to  m.y  trust,  if  I  had  failed  to  teach  him, 
above  everything  else,  his  duty  toward  you. 

"Duty — tome?  He  owes  me  no  duty,"  said 
M.  Volonzoff,  "  since  I  have  neglected  mine.  If 
I  could  only  hear  him  say  that  he  does  not  hate 
me,  that  he  can  make  some  allowance  for  my 
neglect  of  him  !  He  is  gone  to  risk  his  life,  and 
I  shall  lose  him  at  the  very  moment  when  he  was 
restored  to  me  ;  it  is  only  what  I  have  deserved." 

"  May  God  preserve  him  !  "  was  Madame  De- 


2  28  Expiation, 


saubiers'  fervent  prayer.  "But  consider,  we 
must  place  our  firm  belief  in  that  kmgdom  where 
whatever  is  obscure  shall  be  made  clear,  and 
where  those  shall  be  reunited  who  have  been 
separated  by  earthly  accidents." 

The  Count  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  He 
was  wanting  in  that  great  virtue  of  Faith, 
which  carries  with  it  its  own  reward,  by  afford- 
ing courage  and  consolation  to  those  who  pos- 
sess it. 

"  Well  !  "  said  he,  in  reply  to  Madame  Desau- 
biers*  heaven-ward  glance,  "  intercede  for  me 
with  your  God,  who  is  about  to  condemn  me, 
so  nearly  an  old  man,  to  bitter  solitude  !  If  He 
can  read  all  our  thoughts,  as  you  believe.  He 
should  pity  me,  for  truly  I  am  more  wretched 
than  you  can  imagine,  more  than  I  care  to  tell, 
wounded  as  I  am  at  once  in  my  pride,  in  my  af- 
fection, in  my  honor.  I  have  nothing  left,  noth- 
ing, nothing." 

"  Ah,  poor  friend  !  if  you  could  but  pray  !  " 
He  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  But  you 
will  come  to  it  yet,"  said  she. 

When  alone  with  Rose  after  this  conversation, 
Madame  Desaubiers  strongly  urged  her  not  to 
reject  the  offer  which  had  been  made  her. 


Expiation.  229 


The  young  girl  hesitated.  "  What,  and  meet 
that  woman  !  Perhaps  live  in  the  same  house 
with  her  !  " 

**  There  can  be  nothing  to  distress  you,  or 
even  embarrass  you,  in  any  hospitality  which  M. 
Volonzoff  may  offer,"  confidently  replied  the 
older  woman.  ''  I  do  not  fully  understand  what 
he  is  aiming  at,  but  you  may  be  sure  that  you 
can  trust  in  his  good  faith  and  incur  no  risk  in 
doing  it." 

**  He  said  that  Bernard  would  approve  of  my 
going."  Rose  thoughtfully  remarked. 

Their  deliberations  ended  in  their  assenting  to 
\he  plan. 


230  Expiation. 


XV. 


EVERAL  months  have  passed.  Ber- 
nard has  returned,  as  he  promised 
he  would,  but  even  Rose  would  have 
found  it  difficult  to  recognize  him  in  the  emaci- 
ated, swarthy,  sad-faced  man  who  stepped  briskly 
ashore  at  Villeneuve  one  stormy  evening  from 
the  Geneva  boat.  The  worthy  citizens  who  had 
been  his  travelling  companions  in  the  sail  across 
the  lake  had  whispered  to  each  other  :  "  He  is  a 
French  officer  !  "  They  had  seen  that  same  ex- 
pression on  so  many  other  faces  that  they  had 
come  to  know  it  well.  He  gave  them  no  opportu- 
nity, however,  of  entering  into  conversation;  en- 
grossed in  his  thoughts,  Bernard  stood  leaning 
against  the  bridge,  communing  with  the  lake,  on 
whose  dark  surface  he  seemed  to  read  a  heart- 
rending and  heroic  story,  his  country's  and  his 
own.  The  threatening  West  is  red  with  the 
blood  and  fire  of  war.     The  black  clouds  passing 


Expiation,  231 


with  wild,  quick  flight  over  the  rising  waves  are 
the  devastating  hordes  of  the  invader.  The 
great  mirror  shows  him  every  one  of  the  tragic 
episodes  in  which  he  has  played  his  part.  He 
sees  the  regiment  to  which  he  belonged  sent  to 
the  front  before  the  men  had  learned  the  manual; 
he  sees  prodigies  of  individual  bravery  achieved 
without  result,  for  lack  of  that  military  educa- 
tion which  produces  discipline.  He  was  a 
hero  in  those  days,  as  who  indeed  was  not  ! 
While  the  old  army,  the  only  army  in  fact,  was 
held  captive  in  Germany,  the  new  troops,  hastily 
levied,  without  arms,  ammunition  or  clothing, 
stood  and  took  their  inevitable  defeats. 

The  food  was  insufficient;  the  fatigue  of  forced 
marches,  the  cold  winter  nights  passed  shelter- 
less in  the  snow,  the  disease  that  is  engendered 
by  such  misery,  cost  more  lives  than  did  even 
shot  and  shell.  Bernard  had  experienced  all 
these  sufferings,  cold,  hunger,  want  ;  and  what 
was  bitterer  yet,  he  had  felt  the  rage  and  despair 
of  surviving  a  disgrace  that  was  worse  than  all 
else  combined.  Himself  sorely  wounded,  he  was 
forced  to  witness,  sorrowfully  and  impotently, 
the  death-struggle  of  France,  and  lying  on  his  hos- 
pital cot,  from  which  he  prayed  that  he  might 


232  Expiation. 


never  rise  again,  the  dreadful  sentence: — "It  is 
all  over!  " — sounded  in  his  ear.  It  rings  there  yet 
in  the  depths  of  his  heart,  like  a  funeral  knell,  but 
at  the  same  time  he  hears  a  low  and  supplica- 
ting voice,  Dima's  voice,  urging  him  to  hurry — 
and  he  fears  to  be  too  late.  And  so  at  last  he 
steps  on  shore. 

It  is  a  brilliant  season  at  the  lake,  and  the 
hotels  are  filled  with  tourists  ;  from  all  the  pro- 
jecting balconies  that  adorn  the  front  of  the  hotels 
and  boarding  houses  comes  the  sound  of  con- 
versation in  every  language  of  Europe  ;  now  and 
then  the  notes  of  the  inevitable  piano  burst  out 
and  summon  the  English  girls  to  more  exercise  : 
they  climb  all  day  and  dance  all  night  :  others 
are  walking  by  the  lake-side,  trying  to  find  a 
breath  of  fresh  air,  for  it  has  been  very  warm 
all  day  ;  red  and  white  wraps  flit  to  and  fro  in 
the  twilight,  and  the  sound  of  stifled  laughter  indi- 
cates that  flirtation  is  brisker  when  carried  on 
in  the  open  air  than  in  the  drawing-room.  A 
belated  excursion  party  makes  its  way  down  the 
rocks  of  Naye  by  the  winding  pathway  of  Re- 
courbes.  Bernard  has  to  stand  aside  and  wait  to 
let  it  pass  ;  there  is  a  lively  clatter  of  cracking 
whips,  jingling  bells,  female  cries  and  shrieks,  and 


Expiation,  233 


guides  calling  to  their  mules  ;  he  looks  with 
amused  impatience,  dashed  with  a  little  contempt, 
upon  the  scatter-brained  party  that  is  so  easily- 
amused.  But  down  yonder,  nestling  among  a 
clump  of  larches,  which  rear  their  heads  like 
funeral  hangings  under  the  lead-colored  light  of 
the  storm,  more  like  a  child's  toy  in  its  fantas- 
tic outlines,  is  the  Chalet  from  which  he  went 
forth  a  while  ago,  full  of  martial  ardor,  to  answer 
the  summons  of  the  cannon  which  he  seems  to 
hear  again  to-day  in  the  thunder  reverberating 
among  the  mountains.  How  mournful  and  sul- 
len it  sounds  !  And  the  rain,  which  now  begins 
to  fall  in  slow  drops,  seems  to  him  like  tears. 

Catherine,  Dima's  old  nurse,  is  sitting  before 
the  door.  Bernard's  fears  oppress  him  :  "There 
is  nothing  wrong  ? "  he  asks. 

She  shakes  her  head  and  points  to  a  dog  that 
lies  stretched  out  at  her  feet,  sleeping  with  his 
muzzle  on  his  paws  :  "  He  has  whined  all  day, 
and  that  is  a  bad  omen,"  says  she.  *'  Our  little 
dove  is  going  to  take  his  flight.  Oh  !  my  God  ! 
that  he  should  be  called  away  before  me  ! " 

She  arises  with  what  alacrity  her  great  age 
permits  and  shows  Bernard  into  the  vestibule. 
As  he  puts  foot  in  it,  he  hears  these  words  pain- 


234  Expiation, 


fully  articulated  from  an  adjoining  room  :  "  I 
know  his  step  !  " 

Dima  had  been  placed  in  this  great  room  so 
that  he  might  breathe  more  easily,  and  also  that 
he  might  watch  for  the  coming  of  his  friend 
and  be  the  first  to  welcome  him.  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  him  before  any  one  else  does,"'  he 
keeps  repeating,  under  the  returning  influence 
of  his  old  time  jealousy. 

There  is  not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  and  the 
windows  are  opened  wide  to  admit  the  invigor- 
ating odor  of  the  fir-trees ;  still  only  a  dim  light 
falls  upon  the  objects,  animate  and  inanimate,  in 
the  room.  Bernard  imperfectly  distinguishes 
M.  Volonzoff,  the  doctor  from  Geneva,  and  a 
woman  whom  he  does  not  dare  to  look  at  closely. 
She  is  using  her  fan  to  create  a  current  of  cooler 
air  around  the  sick  boy.  At  his  approach  they 
all  draw  back  from  the  bed. 

"It  is  he  !"  cries  Dima,  raising  himself  upon 
his  elbow,  and  a  hectic  flush  appears  upon  his 
cheeks.  Bernard  runs  straight  to  the  bed  and 
wraps  the  wasted  little  form  in  his  arms  ;  he 
feels  his  short,  labored  breath  upon  his  cheek. 
"  You  have  come  at  last  !  I  told  you  that  I 
would  wait  for  you  !  " 


Expiation,  235 


They  hold  each  other  in  a  long  embrace,  then 
Bernard  releases  himself  with  all  the  gentleness 
at  his  command,  and  replaces  the  pale  face, 
illuminated  by  an  ecstatic  smile,  back  upon  its 
pillow.  A  lamp  is  brought  in,  which  serves  to 
disclose  this  smile,  and  also  shows  only  too 
plainly  the  ravages  of  the  disease. 

Bernard  gives  a  start  and  trembles  at  the 
sound  of  a  female  voice  close  beside  him  :  "  Do 
not  fatigue  him  too  much."  It  is  Rose,  whom 
he  liad  mistaken  for  the  Countess  in  the  uncer- 
tain evening  light. 

"  What  !  you  here,  Rose  ?  " 

"  She  has  tried  her  best  to  fill  your  place," 
says  the  child,  summoning  up  his  remaining 
energy  to  make  the  pretty  speech. 

"Do  you  not  think,"  said  the  Count,  coming 
forward,  "  that  Mademoiselle  Aym^s  was  better 
here  than  she  could  have  been  anywhere  else?  I 
thought  that  I  knew  what  you  wanted,  and  I 
acted  accordingly.  While  you  were  away,  we 
cheered  ourselves  by  hoping  that  we  might  greet 
your  return  by  more  than  one  pleasant  surprise, 
but  a  stronger  will  than  ours  has  decreed  other- 
wise." The  Count's  voice  failed  him  as  he 
uttered  these  words. 


236  Expiation. 


"  Why  do  you  talk  like  that  ? "  Dima  inter- 
rupted :  '*  I  do  not  wish  that  things  should  be 
different,  and  Mademoiselle  Aymes,  too,  is  satis- 
fied. She  has  been  very  good  to  me  !  We  talked 
a  great  deal  about  you,  Bernard  ;  I  could  not 
have  got  along  without  her,  and  she  must  stay 
here  always,  although  I  shall  not  need  any  one's 
assistance  much  longer  ;  but  you  are  here !  " 

"  You  are  talking  too  much,"  says  the  doctor, 
and  a  spasm  which  convulses  his  patient  shows 
that  he  is  right. 

In  the  profound  silence  which  now  reigns, 
nothing  is  heard  but  the  ticking  of  the  clock 
and  the  echoes  of  the  retreating  storm.  Bernard 
presses  his  lips  to  Rose's  hand  and  casts  a  look 
of  thanks  toward  M.  Volonzoff ;  his  heart  is  full 
to  overflowing,  but  death,  hovering  about  them 
and  filling  the  room  with  his  solemn,  threathen- 
ing  presence,  checks  any  expression  of  his  grati- 
tude or  his  love. 

Dima  is  the  first  to  speak :  "  How  many 
things  you  must  have  to  tell  me  !  and  I  too  have 
a  great  deal  to  say  to  you.  It  seems  as  if  there 
will  never  be  time  enough." 

"  I  will  sit  up  with  you  to-night,  if  you  would 
like  to  have  me." 


Expiation.  2$y 


"  Oh  !  yes  !  I  should  like  so  much  to  have 
you  all  to  myself  !  " 

As  every  wish  of  Dima's  is  a  command,  they 
are  left  alone  together.  As  soon  as  the  door  is 
closed,  he  says  to  Bernard  :  "  Raise  me  a  little  ; 
I  do  not  breathe  easily."  Bernard  draws  him  to 
himself  and  places  his  head  upon  his  shoulder, 
where  he  appears  to  rest  contentedly. 

"  How  beautiful  the  stars  are  !  "  the  child 
sighs,  turning  his  great  eyes  toward  the  dark- 
ness which  is  becoming  more  and  more  impene- 
trable ;  no  doubt  his  vision  penetrates  it  and  is 
conscious  of  things  beyond,  "And  that  music, 
too  !  Listen  ! "  The  storm  had  passed  away, 
and  the  rippling  melody  of  the  waterfall  is  dis- 
tinctly audible,  and  from  time  to  time  there 
comes  to  them  on  the  night  air  another  sound 
of  harmony,  pure  and  liquid  as  the  falling 
waters.  "  It  is  mamma's  voice,"  continues  Dima 
joyfully  ;  "  it  is  so  long  since  1  have  heard  it  ! 
I  did  not  tell  them  so,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the 
door  with  his  trembling  finger,  "  but  I  feel  that  I 
am  going  to  meet  mamma." 

Can  this  be  delirium  ?  Bernard  trembles 
from  head  to  foot  as  he  asks  :  "Is  she  here  ? " 

"You  know  that  she  is  not.     The  angels  have 


238  Expiation, 


taken  her  away.  Hush  !  Papa  has  only  spoken 
of  her  to  me  once  since  I  parted  from  her  at 
Sestri ;  then  he  told  me  that  I  would  never  see 
her  again.  I  cried  a  great  deal,  but  now  that  I 
have  seen  you  again,  there  is  nothing  to  keep  me 
from  going  to  meet  her.  If  you  could  only 
come  too  !  Shall  I  have  to  wait  for  you  long  ?  " 
He  lets  his  heavy  head  decline  upon  the  shoul- 
der where  it  has  been  pillowed  so  many  times, 
and  shuts  his  eyes.  Bernard  forgets  him  for  the 
moment.  His  thouglits  are  with  Annette,  who  is 
no  more.  Can  it  be  ?  Is  it  possible  that  nothing 
remains  of  that  dazzling  beauty,  of  all  those 
dangerous  charms  ?  Can  that  form,  so  young, 
so  overflowing  with  life,  have  become  food  for 
worms  ?  He  tries  to  picture  to  himself  the  end 
of  such  a  woman  :  Annette  in  sickness,  Annette 
gradually  wasting  away  beneath  her  sufferings. 
But  no !  his  imagination  quickly  turns  and 
dwells  upon  another,  the  most  dreadful  of  all 
pictures  that  can  be  conceived  :  suicide,  the  log- 
ical consequence  of  ill-directed  passions,  the 
last  refuge  for  lives  without  principle  and  with- 
out faith,  for  violence  and  weakness.  With  all 
sense  of  responsibility  gone,  so  to  speak,  so  suc- 
cessful had  she  been  in  stifling  conscience ;  de- 


Expiation.  239 


ceived  and  led  astray  by  her  idle  fancies  ;  with 
no  firm  anchorage  ground,  and  her  desire  of 
pleasure  unsatiated,  although  she  saw  its  futil- 
ity ;  she  must  at  last  have  reached  the  abyss  that 
yawns  for  us  in  our  weariness  and  despair,  and 
have  seen  no  other  way  of  putting  an  end  to  the 
evils  that  she  had  brought  upon  herself.  Had 
she  not  said  to  him  more  than  once :  "  The 
drama  of  life,  to  be  interesting,  should  not  be  too 
long.  I  have  reached  the  last  act  of  mine,  and 
I  want  it  to  touch  the  audience.  Cleopatra's  asp, 
or  Phaedra's  poison,  would  have  no  terrors  for 
me  at  a  pinch."  Probably  she  was  not  in  earnest, 
but  she  had  always  been  accustomed  to  treat  the 
most  serious  affairs  lightly. 

Thus  under  the  influence  of  spectre-breeding 
night,  and  still  more,  tortured  by  the  remorseful 
feeling  that  he  might  have  been  for  something  in 
the  inception  of  this  crime,  the  idea  of  suicide,  that 
had  gratuitously  presented  itself  to  Bernard's  im- 
agination, assumes  the  proportions  of  a  dreadful 
reality.  Scarcely  conscious  of  what  he  does  or 
says,  he  sits  on  the  edge  of  Dima's  bed  and  me- 
chanically sustains  the  child.  "  Wretch  !  "  he 
says,  addressing  himself,  "  you  have  considered 
only   your  own  repose,   your   own  conscience ! 


240  Expiation. 


What  you  called  virtue  was  only  selfishness 
and  cruel  obduracy.  She  loved  you,  and  her 
blood  is  on  your  hands  just  as  much  as  if  you 
had  struck  her  with  a  knife  and  slain  her." 

He  had  fled  from  her  without  looking  back  ; 
were  she  alive,  perhaps,  he  would  have  hated 
her,  but  dead,  she  has  become  holy  in  his  eyes. 
Bernard  will  not  learn  the  whole  disgusting  truth 
for  some  time  yet.  Annette,  seeing  no  better 
course  for  herself,  and  thirsting  to  be  i;^venged 
on  her  husband,  had  prevailed  on  M.  de  Fossom- 
brone  to  run  away  with  her.  The  severity  of  the 
Russian  laws  against  crimes  like  hers  having  es- 
tranged her  from  her  family  and  put  a  barrier 
between  her  and  society,  she  pitched  her  tents  in 
the  east  in  company  with  her  lover,  who  had  al- 
ready begun  to  feel  the  embarrassment  of  so 
great  a  happiness. 

It  is  far  better  for  Dima  that  he  should  think 
he  is  motherless.  But  what  a  night  it  is  for 
Bernard,  alone,  save  for  the  company  of  his  hor- 
rible illusion  and  the  child,  already  motionless 
as  if  he  were  in  his  coffin  !  Only  once  again 
during  the  long  night  does  he  open  his  eyes, 
calling  his  friend  by  name  : 

"  Do  you  believe  what  Catherine   says,  that  I 


Expiation,  241 


shall  have  wings  up  there  ?  Only  think,  wings  !" 
repeats  the  poor  helpless  creature,  with  a  yearn- 
ing for  space  and  liberty  that  causes  his  frame 
to  thrill.  It  was  the  last  word  he  spoke,  and 
when  M.  Volonzoff  comes  to  relieve  Bernard  at 
daybreak,  Dima  seems  to  be  sleeping  peacefully. 

Bernard  had  gone  to  his  room  and  thrown  him- 
self on  the  bed  that  had  been  made  ready  for 
him,  but  he  cannot  sleep.  There  seems  to  be  a 
mysterious  presence  in  the  room,  something  that 
floats  about  him  and  surrounds  him,  something 
like  a  loving  little  spirit,  that  has  followed  him 
there  and  lingers,  unwilling  to  say  farewell  ;  it 
seems  to  him  that  Dima  is  at  his  side  and  whis- 
pers in  his  ear.  It  may  be  so.  The  sun  has 
hardly  risen  when  old  Catherine,  her  rigid  feat- 
ures contracted  in  the  solemnity  and  holiness  of 
her  grief,  enters  his  room  :  "  Come  !  " 

Rose,  her  tears  falling  freely,  is  waiting  for 
him  ;  she  puts  her  arms  around  his  neck.  It  is 
the  Heaven-appointed  mission  of  woman  to  as- 
suage our  sufferings  with  the  balm  of  their  pity 
and  the  sweet  consoling  tenderness  of  their  love. 
Rose  gives  him  her  first  kiss  in  coramiseratioaof 
his  bereavement ;  had  he  felt  his  loss  less  keenly 
he  would  not  have  received  it  then. 


242  Expiation. 


"  Let  us  not  lament  over  his  deliverance,"  she 
says  ;  "his  sufferings  are  ended,  he  passed  away 
without  awakening." 


Morning,  with  its  odorous  freshness  and  its 
indescribable  harmonies,  enters  the  room  be- 
tween the  parted  curtains,  and  fills  it  with  floods 
of  light.  Are  these  crystalline  vibrations  which 
fill  the  blue  transparent  atmosphere  of  heaven  or 
of  earth  ?  Where  does  earth  end  ?  Where  does 
heaven  begin  ?  Everything  is  pervaded  by  light 
and  gladness.  The  burning  bush  of  scripture 
blazes  on  every  mountain  side ;  the  majestic, 
towering  summits  are  seen  dimly  through  a 
golden  mist  which  rises  from  the  bosom  of  the 
sparkling  lake  that  lies  beneath,  unruffled  by  a 
wave.  Never  was  there  a  more  resplendent 
glimpse  into  eternity  and  the  infinite  vouchsafed 
to  mortal  vision  ;  the  glory  of  it  is  too  great  for 
the  eye  of  man  ;  yet  the  glory,  and  the  blessed- 
ness, and  the  beauty  which  are  immortal,  are  still 
more  faithfully  depicted  on  the  transfigured  line- 
aments of  him  who  so  short  a  while  ago  was 
Dima.  The  sun  wreathes  his  forehead  with  a 
saintly  aureok,  the  wounded  bird  has  found  his 


Expiation.  243 


wings,  he  is  victorious  over  life.  M.  Volonzoff 
has  at  last  bent  the  knee  before  the  avenging 
God  whose  presence  he  recognizes  by  the  side  of 
this  bed  of  death.  He  seems  to  be  listening  for 
something  rather  than  praying,  there,  with  his 
face  covered  by  his  hands. 

"  What  could  have  been  the  reason  of  sum- 
moning him  to  earth,  where  he  has  suffered 
so  ?  "  he  asks  himself.  "  What  was  it  appointed 
that  he  should  do,  except  suffer  and  endure? 
Is  there  such  a  thing  as  justice  ?  " 

And  a  voice  that  he  had  never  heard  before 
answers  : 

"  He  was  a  stainless  victim  ;  it  was  appointed 
that  he  should  yield  his  life  in  loving  and  ex- 
piating, that  he  should  bring  together  those  who 
were  separated  and  should  be  united,  that  he 
should  fill  the  place  of  another  until  the  time 
should  come  to  yield  it  up." 

The  father  understands  ;  he  will  obey.  Slow- 
ly he  turns  toward  Bernard,  who  has  moved 
back  a  little,  influenced  by  his  grief  for  the 
dead  and  his  respect  for  the  living  :  he  has  met 
death  on  the  battle-field  in  its  most  fearful  forms, 
but  never  has  he  been  affected  like  this,  even 
when  he  had  seen  the  arrow  pointed  at  himself. 


244  Expiation. 


M.  Volonzoff  signs  to  him  to  come  forward  : 
"We^will  submit,"  he  says,  endeavoring  to 
restrain  the  sobs  by  which,  spite  of  his  efforts, 
his  form  continues  to  be  shaken.  "  It  was 
Diraa  who  brought  you  to  me,  Dima  adjures 
you  to  pardon  me my  son  !  " 

FINIS. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 

Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


2\i^ 


mt^ 


REC'D  LD 


mzW'^^^ 


}i\r\i\i    uUiiri 


^uiM  9  1984 


UNiV.  Or  CALJF.,  BERK, 


y-i^'S-j 


[\MAifit  in  inieriifli'.ii' 


Loan 


JUL  2 ,1984 


LD  21A-40m-4,'63 
(D647l6l0)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


YB  54302 


